


Practically Magic

by ApolloWings



Series: Lessons, Lace, and Magic [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure, Drama, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 14:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3124127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApolloWings/pseuds/ApolloWings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of the Lavellan clan, Calathea, had been asked to observe an event that would effect the entirety of Thedas. But a Dalish First who casually wanders out the confines of her mind and has awoken something ancient which has an unholy fascination with her - could only be at the centre of such events. Rating subject to change. Contains swearing and gore so far.<br/>(Not all romantic pairings seen in story yet, characters added as story progresses)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author note:**  This is an exploration of a different romance, and of Hedge Magic - because really, with only one/two mages of which to base their entire magical knowledge, a Dalish Mage would really be a Hedge Mage. And of course - Inquisition! I hope to capture even a small glimpse of the awesomeness that we've received in the game.

It won't be a simple retelling though. Don't you worry.

This story was originally posted over on Fanfiction (it's unfinished as of yet 5th Jan 2014) and I'll update it as I update the original.

 **Disclaimer:**  Dragon Age belongs to BioWare and EA respectively. Will/may contain spoilers for Origins, DA2, The Stolen Throne, The Calling, Asunder, The Masked Empire, and of course, Inquisition. It will feature both The Warden and Hawke too.

* * *

**Prologue**

Keepers of the lost lore; that was what it meant to her deep inside, to be Dalish. It did not mean scorning, or fearing humans, nor did it mean they had an innate superiority over their city brethren. It was an accident of birth and circumstance that would bring someone to be born with pointed ears, or in a forest, or as a child of the stone, even if they had magic or not. Something that one could not change.

Of course, Calathea was still proud of who she was. Just because she'd had no choice over who or what she was, there was no reason not to be proud. As First of clan Lavellan to Keeper Istimaethoriel, not that the Keeper was the Keeper she had grown up with and learnt at the knee of.

Keeper Soralan had been  _her_  Keeper, her guide, and father-figure when her parents died. And she had been his Second, with Istimaethoriel as his First. The Keeper's Tale had been a sad though, in a chance to learn more of what they had forgotten from Halamishiral or even Arlathan, Keeper Soralan had consulted demons, spilling his blood to gain knowledge beyond his ken.

Calathea and Istimaethoriel stood guard over his prone body that day as he explored the Fade, seeking his demon. He was to bind it to a fox and converse with the demon. He was tricked.

But he was not foolish. Soralan had taught them how to unbind the demon from their mortal plane, and they had needed to slay their dear Keeper in the end. They had gained nothing. A fable for their entire clan on the dangers of demons.

It was over five years past since that day, but Calathea would still fall asleep with Uthernera in her mind every so often.

Now, she hid behind the soft, woolen cowl and layered robes for warmth, her personal guard of Felgan the hunter accompanying her. Clan Lavellan was far away now, back in the Free Marches, and they picked their way amongst the throngs of pilgrims, rebel mages, and defecting templars. Here, they were all but invisible, plain and faces shadowed.

The Keeper very rightly needed to know about the Conclave of minds between the human Divine of the Andrastian Chantry, and the leaders of the Mage-Templar war. This Conclave was to try and achieve peace between the two warring factions, and the outcome would affect all of Thedas, including the Dalish.

"Keep close to me! Elgan'nan Thea, I would think you would know better than to wander off." Felgan grumbled, his stern face and stormy expression so much like his father,  _her_ Keeper Soralan.

Calathea, while not unfriendly, was not the most sociable among her clan. Being a mage had seen to it that those friends she had as a fledgling looked at her with a tempered mixture of awe and fear. It was right of course - she was to one day be the leader, their Keeper, but at the same time, magic had it's dangers.

But her separate studies, away from the apprentice hunters and craftsmen had distanced her further. Indeed, only the apprentice Hahren, Felgan, and Istimaethoriel had been close enough to call her friend. "I cannot help it, I feel ill at ease trapped in these walls. Keep watching the dais for this human Divine, I need a little air. I shan't wander far lethallin." she slipped between the swaying and swelling crowd as they parted and closed, searching for a blessed area she could secure for herself, a bit of space where the air was not hot and fuggy.

She could vaguely hear Felgan calling but she pushed through the warm bodies, her skin felt sticky and overheated despite how cold the outside was. The Conclave was being held in one of the coldest places of the coldest countries - Haven, Ferelden.

Soon, she had been pushed out as much as she had tried, stumbling onto hard onto her knees into an all but empty corridor. Torches blazed on the walls, casting flickering orange light on the floors and ceiling, charred walls where the flames had left sooty residue behind them. She painfully stood with the help of her short staff, righting her gait as she searched still for some cooler air. All the doors looked the same, all the paths ahead as alike as the next.

How humans could live in such structures was mindboggling. Surely they got lost?

Regardless, she strode down the corridor nearest, keeping a hand on the wall to ensure she didn't walk in circles. A scream echoed from down a dark, unlit hall, a scream of undeniable pain. It warred within her to hide her magic and to help this unknown for a brief moment. But there would be many mages here, it would not be uncommon to see magic use...

"Help me!" the voice wailed. It was enough to spur her into action, her legs taking over the thought process as she sped into the dark and flung open the door with a resounding bang, her staff in hand and the lightning coursing through her veins and tingling on her fingertips.

Her hood had fallen back and the sight in front of her was all but impossible to describe. But the crushing fear and pain radiated like waves from the room. She used it to her advantage...

 


	2. Chapter One

**Author note:** This story is going to get long. I know the prologue takes an hour to complete (roughly), but we're probably about ten-fifteen minutes in here?

 **Disclaimer:**  As before, BioWare and EA own all.

* * *

**Chapter One**

There had been a presence, a calm, gentle one... with an underlying hatred. Then as soon as she'd come to adjust to the soothing and it's cost - it was gone.

The pain was always there though. Nightmares flickered behind her eyelids, and the mage knew it was only a dream in the Fade, but they still frightened her, each time something stabbing into her hand that made her gasp.

Whether or not she woke, she was unsure. Calathea just didn't know, the nightmares bled into one another. Learning how to control her magic and seeing her clan dead around her feet because of her lacking control, the lancing pain as she'd not coped with the magic, unable to protect herself from it either. Killed needlessly by hunters who nailed her to a tree by her hands and then waking, barely alive as they'd driven the first rusty stake through a palm. Bitten by a wild animal... they blurred and changed and she could have cried out. She might not have.

All she knew, was that she was in the Fade each time, the edges of her vision were hazy and the pain was more an afterthought... before it hurt more. It thrummed and ached in equal measure, each time worse and worse.

She awoke as a spear lanced through her hand as she tried to shield Keeper Soralan... she knew him long dead... but the urge was undeniable. Calathea was sure she was in the mortal, waking realm now.

It was dark, a grate high above her that shed cool, white light from the sky in. But there were people around. She heard them gasp and shuffle uncomfortably.

Out of pure instinct for how painful her hand truly was, she looked down to see shackles binding them together, a heavy iron pipe between the two, held by the rope between shackles. But her hand... her hand was green. A weeping, blistered wound, shining with raw flesh about the edges was glowing... where blood might have flowed, just this luminous green...

She stared unbelieving at it for what felt like an age, both in shock and morbidly intrigued by it. It hurt less now she knew what it was, though with the rate of infection and size, it was unlikely to heal well. She might even lose a hand.

There was a sussuration at what she assumed to be a door, for she must be in a room, and had to both get in and out of it. Even her captors must be able to get food in and out. But even with elven hearing and sight, she could barely see the outline of a man nor hear his voice.

A few minutes later, her suspicion was confirmed as two female forms entered the small, cold room, stepping into the square of grated light. As they entered there was the telltale scrape of swords sheathed.

One of the women was muscular, with a stern, scarred face and angry posture,her hair was short and dark. The other wore a hood, and moved sinuously but with a fierce chop to her movements. She stood further from the light and Calathea could barely make out the shiny brooch holding her hood in place. "You awaken." the short-haired woman spat, leaning down into her knees, her shoulders hunched. The the shadows cast her face as angular, and despite the vitriol in her voice, her face was a metal stamp of pure rage. It was not an accent the Dalish elf was familiar with. "So tell me exactly why I shouldn't end you now."

It wasn't a question, it was a command. For all the time lucid in the Fade, Calathea was exhausted. Internally she wanted to fight, to question why she should be ended, killed - but a small, pessimistic part of her said that she was an apostate elf among religious humans who believed that both her heritage and magic were crimes. That was what she had been taught. As she stayed quiet the woman leant further in until the short-haired woman's breath hissed on the long lines of her ear. "The Conclave is destroyed, everyone who was in the Haven Chantry is dead." she paused her teeth gritting together as she stood up, she swayed angrily as she walked around Calathea. She didn't even look at her. "That is, except for you."

It rushed back to her in seconds of flashes, in the darkest blackness and an evil, bubbling green. And there had been a golden light, dragging her away. Then breath, her lungs crushed and bones ached. Now her hand was all but useless. Felgan... the Keeper had trusted her, Istimaethoriel was bonded to their former Keeper's son. Creators. She gulped thickly, trying to find her tongue as she forced the growing lump out of her throat. "Everyone died?" she managed, praying to each and every God that would dare listen that this unknown woman who growled at her that her hunter bodyguard had somehow survived.

She hadn't even known... what had happened? The questioned sailed through her mind. The woman harshly grabbed her bound hand with the weeping, odd wound, lifting it up into the light proper. She threw the limb back at the elven mage as if it disgusted her. "Explain this." she sneered. Calathea pulled the injured limb in to the soft, but sleep creased robes of her chest, hissing as the wound touched fuzzy fibers.

"I can't." she grit out. It hurt more than her vallaslin ceremony, and she had cried out in pain during that, making the pattern wonky on the skin of her chin. She would not give this woman the benefit of her cry in response, but despite her best efforts, her eyes watered.

"You can't?" the woman all but screeched. Calathea stole a glance at the hooded woman who hadn't spoken yet. She circled opposite the short-haired one, even though her face was bathed in more dark grey shadow, the most fervent anger rolled off her.

"It's a wound that I can neither explain how or why it got there." the Dalish woman spoke through gritted teeth.

"You're lying!" the short haired woman sprung at her and the hooded one pulled her back, gently but insistently.

"We need her alive, Cassandra." she spoke softly but with a veiled, anger.

The last few words she'd even said to Felgan sprang to her head, and she couldn't help it as the words tumbled from her lips. "Mythal, I cannot believe, no. All those people at the Conclave cannot be dead." though it was to herself it drew the hooded woman away from this Cassandra.

She turned and stood there like a vengeful spirit, hands clamped to her sides like she feared what she might do with them. Her body spoke what her voice couldn't, as it was calm and soft like a marten's fur. "Do you remember what happened? How this began?" as she spoke, Cassandra walked around the two of them, waiting behind Calathea. A brief, optimistic thought was that it was merely to strangle her, rather than kick her to dead starting at the kidneys.

Calathea wet her lips. "I remember running from the dark. It chased me. Then a golden woman?" she trailed off. It hadn't been the same hand that was injured so either by instinct she'd used the uninjured one, or it wasn't this golden woman that caused it.

Even if it was real. She'd been deliriously bleeding from dream and nightmare in the Fade for Creators knew how long. It felt much more real though. The hooded woman leaned back, crossing her arms under her chest. "A golden woman?"

"She reached out to me, and then I know nothing more than you do." she glared stubbornly upwards at the hooded woman, daring her to say it was a lie. She waited for it from Cassandra behind her.

It happened awfully quickly in reality. "Go to the forward camp Leliana. I'll take her to the rift." it was Cassandra that spoke, guiding the hooded Leliana out of the room. She turned sharply with a key in her hand, crouching down at the shackles.

"What  _did_  happen?" Calathea asked. Something told her that even if this Cassandra wanted to disembowel her in a second, she'd at least say why first, and be truthful, if blunt. Cassandra undid the locks on the pipe over the shackle rope, throwing it across the room and hauling the elf to her feet. She leveled a scrutinising, narrow-eyed look right into her eyes. Even in the low light, Calathea saw they were a hazel-brown, an uncommon colour in elves but common enough in humans.

Cassandra sighed, as if defeated. "It will be easier to show you. Can you walk?"

She tested out her legs, shaky but more than capable of holding her lithe form given a small stretch. The rope between her shackles twisted. Cassandra didn't bother to listen for an answer, making gestures for the door to remain open and beckoning the elf forward.

Calathea complied, out of want of sunlight and curiosity in whatever this human was talking about. What could possibly kill everyone at that Conclave? Hundreds of well-trained mages and templars as well as countless pilgrims to the site who might have been veteran warriors in their own right? And how could she survive such a thing with merely this horrid wound on her hand?

The sunlight stung as she stepped into it, and she shielded her eyes with bound hands. It had been a lot less brighter from inside the room she'd been kept in. She glanced forward to see Cassandra looking up toward the bright sky. Calathea followed her line of sight, mouth falling open at what she saw.

The sky swirled and swollen around a thick tendril that reached down from the clouds and touched the ground where, according the the treeline she'd seen before, the Haven Chantry had once stood. Huge boulders hung, orbiting this tendril. And it was the same, violent green as the wound on her hand. It didn't take a genius mind to but the two together and realise they thought that she had caused this... thing.

"We call it 'The Breach'. It's a massive rift into the world of demons which grows larger with each passing hour." Cassandra spoke in answer to the unasked question. "It's not the only such rift. But it is the largest. It was caused by the explosion at the Conclave."

"An explosion can do that?" she breathed in response. The air frosted thinly, a white wisp in front of her mouth. It was obvious that an explosion could destroy a building and all within. It had happened at the beginning of the Mage-Templar War, the starting spark according to any news the Lavellan clan had received. But that it could tear open the Veil into the Fade? For nothing else could be the world of demons.

"This one did." Cassandra came back to her, in the brighter light Calathea could see that the woman had a braid in her short hair, and the scar on her jaw was deep, a smaller one on the opposite cheek. Her skin was tan from time in the sun for when she moved her neck to glance sideways at this Breach for a second, her neck was a paler shade beneath her high collared tunic. "And unless we act, it could possibly grow and swallow the world, if there are people left in the world with the sheer amount of demons pouring out."

The ground shook and the wound on her hand sparked, the green light it emitted cracking like spitting embers. It felt as if her hand were poked with a burning she'd fallen into the central fire once. It hurt like that but all concentrated in one, small area. She fell to her knees. A strangled, choking cry tore from her throat and her eyes watered until the wetness streamed down her warm cheeks.

She blinked up at the Breach, seeing the boulders spinning around the central tendril viciously, the tendril itself thicker. Cassandra bend onto her knee, hooking her under the arm and lifting. "As the Breach expands, the mark on your hand spreads... and it will kill you." she looked away again. "But it may be the key to stopping the Breach... somehow. He believes it is."

Most of what Cassandra said after the 'kill you' statement was just whispers in the wind. "And you still believe I did this to myself? There are less destructive ways of suicide." she bit, teeth dug into her bottom lip. The warrior woman huffed.

"Perhaps, it might have been a mistake to harm yourself." it was unsaid that there was plenty of reason for an elf to hate humans, and their Chantry by extension. It had been the reason they lost Halamshiral, lost Arlathan, lost who they were. But it was thousands of years ago. They haven't forgotten, but old wounds heal slowly. It was the general attitude and cruelty elves had at the hands of humans still. In Tevinter, the Dalish had rumours that elves were still slaves. That was a more bitter pill to swallow. Their losses had been for naught. "But try to prove this proclaimed innocence, try to help us close the Breach."

Her words were insistent, sinking in gently through the panicked layers of her consciousness. Calathea nodded. "I... understand."

With circumstances as they were, her magic could barely make matters worse now. "So you'll?" Cassandra prompted.

"I'll help, whatever you need me to do." she vowed. There wasn't the comfortable weight of her shortened staff at her hip, nor the strain of her pack containing heavy book filled with stories, maps, a journal, and to press herbs. Not that the latter mattered as much, but if required, she could channel her magic through her hands. Apostates were often pushed to do so if secrecy was needed in their rituals.

Cassandra walked at her side, her hand firm in the small of her back as she pushed the Dalish First. Through the horrid pain in her hand which made it twitch as her nerves spasmed, she noticed that they were walking up to an army encampment. Humans looked up from their work as they passed, scowls aimed very much directly at her. Their eyes were pitchforks and torches in single glances. Cassandra spoke quietly at her. "They have decided your guilt, they need it. They mourn greatly at the death of her Most Holy, Divine Justinia. If you did cause this or not, the Conclave was hers, and she died. They each needed the war to stop."

Calathea nodded, gulping. They wanted her death, and in opposite places, strange as it sounded, she understood the want of it. Not that she wanted to die. But in her odd way of thinking, she could grasp why these people wanted to see her strung up on a tree. They passed through the people with death glares, onto a path that she'd walked hidden amongst the pilgrims entering Haven. It was away from the deathly eyes, but she still felt them on her.

"The Divine brought the leaders of the Mage-Templar War together in an attempt of peace, and they too died, with their rallying cries that would have stopped their followers. Their deaths will re-instigate most of the fighting. Not just their factions will die, but those caught in the middle." Cassandra hissed. Calathea nodded again. It was true, and it made her wonder just what had happened. There was... something.

They believed she'd caused this havoc, and despite knowing her innocence, the guilt weighed down on her. "We are not savages." she caught up on herself, as if suddenly realising who she was speaking to again. "But they lash out. We must think beyond ourselves though, like our Most Holy. It will be the best memorial to simply be better than our desires."  _But tell them that._ The last words hung in the air, unsaid but acknowledged.

She looked up simply to know where they were going, sick of watching her booted feet. To die in such a foreign place, they spoke of war but her own clan might ignite their own war with the people of Ostwick, where they had last camped. They would die to the obvious might of the Marcher city, but it would happen. If that wasn't enough to get the Dalish involved in some holy war alongside their city brethren in their rebellion against the leash that bound them... very little would be needed to carry that spark into a flame.

Cassandra motioned for a bridge gate to open, the soldiers standing on either side saluting smartly before opening it with a grunt but not a word. She pushed Calathea forward, ahead of her like an offering, a sacrificial lamb for all her talk of it.

"That is, until the Breach is sealed. You are safe, but you will be dying. Think of that. I can promise a trial in Val Royeux but no more, and I for what it's worth, I am sorry for that." She turned once the gate shut with a resounding bang, drawing a knife from her belt.

Calathea's heart sped up, eyes widening as she approached, before the short-haired woman cut the rope in one clean chop. She sighed visibly in relief, confused as ever. Cassandra's belief of her guilt was faltering? A good thing. Perhaps there was a chance.

A chance was better than nothing at all.

 


	3. Chapter Two

**Author note:** For anyone interested - my little Dalish elf pronounces her name "Cal-Ah-thea" - stressing the middle syllable. Not that it matters overmuch.

 

 **Disclaimer:** Dragon Age is owned by BioWare and EA.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

A kernel of hope, that even this bullish Cassandra who very likely would have killed her not a moment ago had doubts on the guilt of her, settled in Calathea's chest. She slipped the cut rope off her wrists, scraping her skin.

"Follow me." Cassandra commanded in front of her.

Calathea looked up, rope still in her hands. "To where exactly?"

The warrior woman sighed, shaking her head and clenching her jaw. "He should be at the closest rift, studying it. If we are to see if this mark of yours can close the Breach, we can test it on this small one." Calathea nodded, as if it were obvious.

"Lead on then, I hope... I'm not sure what I hope." and it was a strange truth. She hoped that she  _could_ fix the sky, but at the same time, she hoped it was just a horrid coincidence that the Breach and her wounded hand were linked somehow - that she'd been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, and instead of dying like everybody else, she'd received this slow death. In the former, a trial and likely death sentence, in the latter, just death.

Thankfully, Cassandra didn't ask about it, probably knowing she would not like the answer. Her pace ahead ensured that soldiers opened the gates on the other side of the bridge, and as they made the upward climb past barricades and steeled, but fearful soldiers, injured streamed past on stretchers - those that had died covered over with a sheet for decency. Even amongst the Dalish they shrouded their dead, it was pleasing in an odd way that humans understood that too.

The Breach, for it stood ahead them like a cruel reminder, it's boulders swinging around like moons when the tendril split, the air filled with a fizzing, painful sound that reverberated in her very blood, focusing on her hand. Calathea had no choice but to sink to her knees, it fried through her nerves and muscles like a knife through vellum.

Her eyes watered but she clenched her jaw tightly, muffling a groan. Through the hazy, water-fed vision, she could see the Breach had gone back to it's single tendril. "What was that?" she whispered.

Cassandra was already hoisting her again, a resolute expression on her face. "It has created another rift. Each time, you cried out in your unconsciousness." she explained. Even though Calathea was unsure what her accent was, it punctuated her stern nature keenly. That she had known the woman such a short amount of time, she made a lot of assumptions. She hissed uncontrollably as she accidentally grabbed the rough linen tabard over Cassandra's breastplate for an anchor to help herself stand too.

The First of a clan wasn't supposed to be so weak, like a newborn halla. She was supposed to be ready for anything, to endure. Elgan'nan, she was supposed to lead her entire clan, guide them. One couldn't be weak when faced with that fate. As she blinked the salted water from her eyes, focusing on the Breach.

Strangely, there was no fear of it, even as small, green fires rained from it, crashing on the frosted ground. Just anger at what it was going to cost her, what it had already cost the world. She wanted to hurt it , this phenomenon, as much as it was hurting her, and had hurt others. The desire was nonsensical, but it persisted. "Lead me to this rift." she demanded of Cassandra. The woman nodded sternly.

Together, they came upon another bridge, one that lead upward over a frozen river to the pilgrim path to the Haven Chantry. As they crossed, like a shooting star, a huge ball of fire hit the bridge, shattering it from mortar boiling in seconds and stones breaking in the heat. Both the women stumbled, slipping as the bridge collapsed, the frozen river groaning and cracking beneath them. Instinct took over as she crouched low and shuffled carefully, her bare hands skating the rough surface. It was cooling, but still painful on her injured hand, and at the same time, too much action was racing through her veins and body to care for the pain in that instant. "Move now if you want to live!" Calathea screeched. Those still alive and capable of moving followed without question, knowing of the danger they were in. She landed with a huff into the snowy bank, breathing deeply.

Everything was full of aching pain, numbed by the cold. A sickening crack sounded as Cassandra leapt on the snow and the river gave way, stone, wood, and frightened people falling deep into the dark depths beneath the thick ice. Her jaw hurt too much to speak, merely bowing her head. Cassandra whispered something that sounded like a prayer. All prayers sounded alike for the dead, there was a solemnity to them that crossed language and religious barriers.

It was cut short though as the snow they were in headed up, liquifying around them in a miserable, muddy stream. The ground rocked and they both sprang to their feet, Cassandra drawing her sword and buckler from her hip.

The reason for such caution was soon apparent as the green fire sent by the Breach coalesced into the form of two shades, hunched, shadowy demons that filled the frozen air with menace. But now, they looked more solid, not ethereal nor having needed to be summoned or forced into a body. Cassandra took the furthest shade, her stalwart form advancing.

Calathea crushed her fingers together as the second shade loomed toward her, searching in the slush for something even vaguely staff-like. There had been mages on that bridge and their staves had fallen with them. Just on the edge of the broken ice of the river a staff rested in the floes. She scrambled backwards, throwing all she could muster through her right, uninjured hand in the primal lightning that coursed through her blood as simply as breathing could be. It stung, her control was paltry through the panic, and she hadn't the time to protect her own hand, the conduit of the magic.

She skid on the ice, snatching up the long stave and twirling it like a war baton menacingly. Now she had the upper hand as it were, using it like a one-armed lance to project her magical energy through it.

The staff was crude, not the refined Dalish staff she'd carried previously, and the edges of the magical core frayed and grated against her will. That staff had been made specifically for her, no other. This was made for nobody, or at least someone with a very different way of magic to her.

But the Keeper described it once. Water flowed over mountains, and after years, it created rivers and streams. You could try to alter them, but it would always try to revert to it's proper form. Magic was similar, and how you were taught, how your water was supposed to flow through the landscape of  _you_ was unchanging once the course had been set. She fought against the staff as much as the demon shade, her anger welling alongside magical energy, invigorating it as she switched the staff around in her hand, thrusting and jabbing toward the looming monster as it writhed in anguish.

The lightning flickered over it. In one hard thrust into the squelchy ground, roots bloomed from the ground. Insidious roots and branches taking up every part of the shade, eclipsing and scouring the evil away. It gave one last attempt at fighting back, clawing at the growing prison that was eating it from the inside out. Shredded leaves and twigs scattered in the slushy ground as it finished it's futile, dying moments.

Cassandra had long left her shade in tatters to the assault of her sword, watching with a slack jaw and angry eyes. Calathea huffed, staking the staff as she held it. "Relinquish your weapon apostate." she growled.

The dalish elf rolled her eyes. "I can drop my magic as easily as you can drop a limb, Cassandra. Despite how crude this is, the stave helps to channel my magic. There might, nay, will be more demons on route I suspect?"

She narrowed her eyes, thinking before pursing her lips and sheathing her sword. "Very true. And I cannot protect you all the time to get to the rift." she sighed. "and you willingly follow, even with your magic. I should remember that."

Cassandra sniffed, breathing heavily and looking at the ruined bridge. "We need to go around the terrain, and up over the frozen waterfall to get to the forward camp. The rift he's been studying is just before then."

"Thank you, for your temporary trust at least."

She didn't dare question anything other than giving her thanks as the shieldmaiden called her to follow the uneven, slippery path. Who was studying these rifts? And they might know how to close it, with her mark, her injured hand? It crackled as she thought of it, not as painfully, not enough to floor her. She hissed at it though, taking care not to touch her palm to her robes.

They managed up the waterfall, but at the top, another crash and sizzle of the green fire burst the top. They both tried to fight the rush of frozen water, but were dragged to the base of the short fall, where dark bubbles and green crackling gave way to a towering shade, his hunched back marked with oily black feathers that stuck awkwardly like a crow in anting. Despite the chill soaking through both of their clothes, weighing both the women down, Cassandra pulled her sword from sheath with a grunt, her shield still on her arm from before.

Calathea gripped tighter to the wooden stave, still on the floor as she summoned up a barrage of lightning which flung through the air at the demonic creature. It fizzed and oozed where the lightning made contact, Cassandra cutting wide gashes and exposing blackened, writhing worms of guts. Calathea skid into the fray, jabbing her staff upwards and pushing her will through the crude core. It prickled at the back of her neck and palms, made her queasy in the gut.

The shade stumbled back, but not before it got a lucky swipe at her arm. Where it's claw cut, her skin blistered, the robes barely protecting it more than a small added resistance. She pulled the arm back, glaring at it as the demon was hurt more than her. Cassandra advanced, ending in with a decisive blow that rended its' oddly corporeal head off.

The warrior glanced back as the elf was running her right hand on the wound, staunching the bleeding with weak healing magic. It was part of her training as a Keeper, protect and serve the clan with her magic as much as her knowledge. "Have you anything with elfroot in? A piece of cloth or poultice?" the First asked offhandedly, Cassandra felt for her pockets, retrieving a small vial full of reddish-brown liquid. She uncorked it with her teeth, spitting it away. The elf poured a little on the bloodied, tattered robe around it, sopping it on the numbed it more than the cold, not like a bite, but a gentle soothing. The bleeding all but stopped, getting less deep. "Come, we need to get to this rift, if I carry on living it can be stitched later."

The warrior nodded grimly. Helping her to her feet. Her robes were sodden with the freezing water, but she had little choice but to wear them. If she'd any proper skill with fire, she might have tried to heat them, although her skill with flames was limited to lighting torches and kindling, as well as a pointless exercise Keeper Soralan had insisted they performed daily.

Cassandra lead the way, pushing up to the trail proper again once they were off the unstable ice and onto the slippery, frosted mud. Their boots gained more purchase here but it was shaky at times.

Her hand felt as if it was burning slowly, getting hotter and hotter with each step. She tried not to cry out with the mounting agony which made her nerves twitch more frequently, her hand shaking violently. The sight as they stumbled into a ruinous waycastle was enough to bring bile to her mouth.

Shades and demons that looked half-sylvan slithered and staked over bloody corpses, at the centre of the ruins, a huge tear into the Fade that pulsed with that luminous, sickly green. If she wasn't a mage, she might not have known it was the Fade on the other side, but she could feel the press of the magical, dreaming realm on her consciousness, even deep in her bones, it felt like the Fade.

Two fighters remained, one, a dwarf atop a crumbled parapet, raining crossbow bolts with deadly and a mage, swathed in thick robes that billowed around him, an elven mage. His fire burnt through the sylvan-like demons like kindling doused in oil.

Taking her staff in good hand, Calathea joined in the fray, a vengeful force for those dead here and full of anger at the tear into the Fade. The air fizzled with the lightning, tingling even in her teeth as she threw her staff with full strength into the ground, encapsulating two shades in lightning infused roots that tore rubble and dust apart quicker than the green fire. Cassandra had bounded ahead, but the background faded as she delved into her reserves of magical energy, plumbing it for shreds of power as the shades and sylvan-like demons identified her as a great threat.

The other mage's fire caught on her roots, spreading in a thick char over the demons, they choked, the physical force of swords and crossbow bolts ending what was left.

Before she could recover, the other mage had swept to her side. His eyes were as angry as Cassandra's when Calathea awoke. He grabbed her hand pushing her forcefully at the Veil rift. Her nerves set off ricocheting in her entire arm. The pain seeped from the wound, her anger uncoiling. It was if she were emptied completely then filled with the innate power of the Fade in a second.

The Dalish elf was left gasping, the air reaching a ear-popping crescendo until the tear shrank, imploding until it left nothing but the afterimage against her eyelids.

She slung back, as if burned, confused beyond all reason, eyes wild and something inside her awakened. What in the Creators name? It was no magic she had known in her entire life that had poured from her. And now? Now she felt as invigorated as if she'd slept for a good eight hours, yet unbelievably worn out. She glared at the other mage, and he glared back, jaw set tight. Both asking questions without words and neither with answers.

"It seems I was right." he finally spoke, turning away and approaching Cassandra. The warrior took a moment to recover from the tense glaring and was breathing heavily from the fight. "The mark can close the rifts."

Pieces slotted into place. This was the 'he' spoken of. No wonder Cassandra had allowed her to use her magic, it would have been hypocritical of her to deny it with another apostate in her arsenal. "Are you saying that it  _is_  linked then?" she hissed. The pain on her wound was returning, slowly but persistently. She looked at it, tracing the edges that looked less sore and reddened. So there truly was a link between this wound and the event that killed hundreds, that could have started the warring anew. "Dread Wolf curse it."

"It is," the mage turned, narrowing his eyes. He looked away. "Which means we should go ahead with the plan and get to the Breach, see if we can seal it, Cassandra."

The dwarf came down from the parapet, shouldering his thick crossbow, the limbs closing in noisily. It was scratched and worn, but lovingly cared for, the wood oiled to a sheen. He grinned roguishly. "Well isn't it a good thing I stuck around?" Cassandra made a derisive snort. "Varric Tethras, at your service." he have her a nod.

"That is... a nice crossbow?" she spoke hesitantly, still feeling the waves of aminosity rolling off the fellow mage and Cassandra to an extent. She supposed that with a confirmed link between rift and mark, it proved more guilt of circumstance in the least. The dwarf chuckled.

"That's Bianca. Seen a lot of demons back to the Maker for sure." he winked.

"You're not coming." Cassandra growled.

"You're going to need me Seeker, and Void, maybe we'll undo some of Blondie's mess, eh?" Calathea had no idea over what they spoke but soundless words passed between dwarf and warrior woman before Cassandra acquiesced.

"Cassandra." the fellow elven apostate said insistently. "Your prisoner may be a mage, but the rift is no magic I have ever known. She would not have caused this."

It was likely the most glowing thing to pass out his lips. Cassandra seemed to trust his verdict though judging by the happier angle of her lips, curling at the edges. "So have you got a name, or are you nameless?" Varric asked, following after Cassandra as she took the lead. Calathea followed, trudging and sopping.

"I am Calathea, First to Keeper Istimaethoriel of the Lavellan clan." she smiled weakly. The dwarf was a friendly soul at least. He grinned wider.

"I knew a Dalish First before. Of the Sabrae clan?"

"You knew Merrill? I hadn't seen her at the last arlathven." it was a matter of course for her to know the Keepers, Firsts and Seconds of the other clans. Come an arlathven every ten years, they would have to convene. It was also good to know the Hahren to an extent. The last arlathven had been just after Keeper Soralan had died. The Sabrae clan had not attended. Nor had the Virnehn clan.

"That's a bit of a long story. I'll lend you my book sometime after we've finished wading up shit creek in demons." Varric shrugged.

Calathea glanced at the other elf. "Solas. I made sure that mark on your hand didn't kill you for the last three days."

Understanding dawned on her, the presence, both soothing and hating. She nodded. "Ma serannas, Solas." she needn't have said more.

"Ma nuvenin, da'len." Solas, pride, said back, dismissively, as if he'd not much choice over stopping her death. She couldn't understand why the fellow elf might be so cold without knowing her.

"Da'len? Ma  _falon_ , halam sahlin." there was a sucking in of air in the general Varric vicinity.

The dwarf tutted. "Why is it elves can't get on with each other? Play nicely."

Both sneered. "Fine." then glared at the other when they spoke in tandem. Varric just laughed.


	4. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:**  Dragon Age still belongs to BioWare and EA!

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**Chapter Three**

By the time they reached the forward camp, Calathea felt the gooseflesh against her rigid robes, the icy water having frosted at the edges, demonic spume in thick, viscous sprays over her face and hair as well as most of her chest. Her robes tattered and cuts bleeding slowly, stinging.

At least the spume was warm, and each of the other fighters were in similar state. Cassandra barely had skin that was not stained with brown-black which she wiped unevenly from her mouth and eyes.

They were a mess, so the screech from the man in Chantry robes was warranted in looks at least. He slammed what he'd been reading into the table, the woman in hood, Leliana tutting at Cassandra. "I managed to get here without bathing in demon innards." she lilted.

Cassandra grunted in response. "The prisoner is not only here, but is unbound! I demand she's put back into custody to await execution in Val Royeaux!" the man demanded, glaring at both the women who had come into her cell not an hour ago. It had been a long hour. If it had been that, it felt like both five minutes and five hours. The sun tracked against the sky said no more than an hour. Such facts couldn't be denied.

"Stay your tongue, Chancellor, the prisoner has the key to closing the Breach." Cassandra staggered out. He seemed sobered by her words, and from the woman covered mostly in all manner of gristly demon there was to offer, it was not difficult.

"So it is true, you were right, Solas?" Leliana asked nonchalant. The fellow apostate just nodded to her, having decided that silence was best. Calathea looked over at him, his bare face and lack of expression but for an odd quirk to his lips when he did speak, or the furrow in his brow when he noticed her gaze. His name did suit him, the man was proud, he walked without fear and a certain arrogance.

"That proves it then does it not? This elf caused the Breach that killed our Divine and you're allowing her all but free reign!" the Chancellor fumed. His nostrils flared and chins wobbled.

"Stay, your, tongue." Cassandra bit out, punctuating her statement with a slammed fist into his turned away from him, all but ignoring his impotent, boiling rage. "Leliana, how is the pass toward the Breach?"

The hooded woman crossed her arms, sighing. "Not good, a scout returned saying that Commander Cullen has listed at least thirty casualties and many more injured. If anything, I would say the Breach is angry." Leliana shook her head. "Getting there will be difficult, but there is another chance."

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. "That is?"

"The mountain path I took alongside my Warden. The demons have focused on our troops, likely to possess them. We use them as bait and get a small group to the Breach, your group." Leliana pursed her lips at the start of a rebuttal from Cassandra. "They know what they signed up for, and we must honour any sacrifice."

"We can fight alongside them." Cassandra narrowed her eyes, looking away after a tense moment. "But... you are right of course. Calathea? What do you think?"

As their eyes turned to her she froze like her sodden robes. "Pardon? You care for what  _I_  think?"

"We need you to be alive to reach and close the Breach." Leliana explained, rocking onto a hip and glancing at the small mountain left until they would have reached the high Haven Chantry.

"I shan't survive it I would think." she blurted in response. "So you can forego the trial, Cassandra. Take us along this mountain path." a Keeper would understand her choice. The clan trusted a Keeper to their safety, but they would also trust their Keeper to do what was necessary. It was necessary to get to the Breach, that was certain. If it engulfed the world or spewed enough demons, there would be no other option. It had to be stopped now.

Cassandra frowned, but nodded in acceptance. Leliana stooped to get a beautiful weapon, a recurve of remarkable craftsmanship and two quivers of arrows which she slung on her back securely. She buckled a pouch on her hip, a resolute expression taking over her face. She pulled her hood down, revealing bobbed red hair and sky-blue eyes. "Come on. I have a few regenerative potions if needed?"

They were thankful for them, savouring the herbal tinctures in their own ways as they worked alchemical magic on their bodies, invigorating muscles, warming and numbing pains away, clotting blood to form scabs where they'd been cut. The Chancellor just glowered at them, gnashing his teeth, jowls shaking.

Leliana stood beside Cassandra as they picked their way behind the two women, a stony silence encompassing elves and dwarf. "This is peachy, marching to stop the world and not a friendly word." he finally broke the tension.

"It matters little, to stop it will take all I am, a small rift took everything in me, this Breach is... so much larger." Calathea smiled weakly at the dwarf. "Ma serannas though, for trying to make it a lighter mood."

"I've always avoided the dour like the plague. Anyway, think of the tales that'll be told. You can't have last words without speaking." she wondered about those tales.

Would they speak her name, know the shape of her vallaslin, or the hue of her hair? Would they speak of her magic like a bulwark against the evil of demons, or simply of a distant figure that stopped an invasion of them? Words twisted inside her, but she knew they would mean little to a tale. It was a comforting thought at least.

And what would they say of those dying in the pass? Or the dwarf with a kind word, a broken and set nose, a crossbow named for a woman, but no beard? The blunt woman with a coiled brain in her cropped hair and a sword of righteousness in hand? The archer who carried herself with purpose and calm amid the chaos? Even the prideful mage who was not Dalish yet spoke elvish as well as any of the People?

These details would scatter to the wind. Everything would be the mere event. "Live through this and make up some good ones." she finally smiled back, the chill in her bones not from the undeniable cold, but an odd calm. Dying was not something she feared, nor being forgotten in entirety. She was not a hero, at the moment, she was a convict.

Varric laughed. "A good friend said that once. Never had to do it, he lived through the whole mess," he paused, sighing nostalgically. "shit I hope history repeats. I'm no good with writing tragedies. Not based on true events that is."

"Then if I do, I'm sure my incarceration between here and Val Royeaux could use this book you spoke of will be worth my time." she looked down at the snow they trod, so far away from her Clan. Snow was uncommon in the northern fringes of the Free Marches, where they typically wintered. A reminiscent smile came to her lips of her first encounter with snow, a fledgling elf overjoyed at the strange, beautiful covering on the ground, the way icicles hung on their statues of the Gods. She remembered swinging on a frozen branch and landing heavily among the halla, chewing the cud thoughtfully at her. Such wild whims as a child were her only distraction beyond studies.

It was too cold to be of any use, and went from pristine white to mucky slush too quickly to remain beautiful. The child's vision shattered quickly and she frowned.

Her body filled with unease, a thousand sharp bone needles under her skin. Varric cursed. "Nugshit."

Instinct and gut-wrenching curiosity warred as she looked toward the cause of such pain, a stubborn anger incensing her at the sight of a towering demon of Rage burning its' way over to a group of soldiers in cloth armour.

She pulled her staff up as Cassandra started to run at the monster, her mind racing for a spell that might help. Her branches burned in fire, and a rage demon was fire personified. Flames, if she could manage such a thing, also fueled it. Her lightning burned as readily as fire.

But the calm was there, hidden behind the panicked thoughts, something told her it was alright, pressing on her consciousness like a cold compress on a swollen ankle. Suddenly Solas was behind her, his hands on her elbows and his magical energy twinned with hers in a violent pulse, more magic than her body normally held. "Just trust me and focus." he spoke clearly over the screaming and futile taunting Cassandra was trying, clanging her sword on her metal buckler to draw the demon from the group of injured soldiers.

She gulped, nodding quickly. Magic was a vital solution here, not physical force. Shades, those sylvan-like demons, even Pride and Desire could fall to a sword. But Rage took more than aggression. Her mind wiped, not even stark white, or pitch black, but the absence of anything. All she could feel was the magic, the flow of it through her forearms and hands, the sting of it in her blood.

It hurt and healed in equal measure but she stayed resolute, whimpering beneath her breath as her vision returned to see Rage frozen into a hard shell, a statue of ice as hard as any stone given that it took Cassandra several attempts to break it with all her weight like a battering ram. Where the demon had slid on the ground, ashes trailed from grass, water running miserably and steaming next to slushy snow.

"Maker's mercy," one of the soldiers gulped. "we was to keep a watch and send word to the forward camp. If your lot hadn't come, Lady Cassandra." he shuddered.

"I think it is alright now. Return to he forward camp, restock your supplies then get to the pass, Commander Cullen requires all able hands." they saluted, having been terrified then saved in an instant. As they left earshot Cassandra turned to, the now distant from Dalish First, Solas. "Good job, that was quick thinking."

"I simply required more power." he spoke plainly, Calathea watched him walk ahead as they all followed Cassandra and Leliana again. His face and posture betrayed nothing that she had felt, none of the blinding magic. Varric kept back with her.

"I'd say you've seen a ghost, but I've seen them and the general reaction is 'look out for the flying vase'." he commented. "Are you alright?"

"I... I don't know what to think." and as she passed the scorched ground, the grass and small wildflowers grew beneath her boots. Something inside her stirred, intrigued, a fatal curiosity that needed sating. Varric looked worriedly at her. "I should be alright. I'm just not used to that sheer amount of magic."

After their... unusual encounter with the demon of Rage, and the ensuing awkward silence, they finally mounted the trail, coming into the remains of what had been the human Chantry. Bodies, red as blood and little more than bones stretched with skin, each in terrible agony and frozen like cruel statues littered the floor. Some screaming, others clawing at the floor. She felt the wound throb as they passed close to each and Varric choked.

Calathea followed his line of sight, her gaze falling on long spires of red mineral rock. Not something that had been there previously, but the statue corpses were new too. He cursed them under his breath, muttering about fool expeditions and red lyrium. As they walked around it, it hummed in the base of her skull, a painful drone that could surely drive a man mad.

The Breach reached down from the sky, as frayed and grating against her inner will as the crude staff she held. It has to be closed. The Fade and waking world were not supposed to blur so much, and as enthralling as a trip in the Fade could be, it was a land of deceit. Cassandra stopped, turning sternly. She looked at all of them as if capturing their faces in her mind for the last, possible time.

Calathea did not blame the human. These faces were going to the faces she could die with. It was a brief honour in its' own way, and a shame that mysteries would remain as such. She spared a glance at Varric, thinking of the book she would never read, at Leliana and Cassandra and the guilt she knew she could not erase in their minds, and then lastly at Solas, wondering just what his magic was.

It wasn't as if she'd not joined her magic with another before. Keepers Istimaethoriel and Soralan both had needed her added power before. Never had it felt like that though. She regretted lacking that knowledge as to why. But a brief flicker in the back of her mind said it was that Solas used magic in a very different way to her - not any other reason.

There was a commotion behind them, where they gathered in silent vigil for a moment of reflection and peace with their Gods before sure deaths. Each glared to the sight of a small army, seven or eight hunting parties worth of men and women armed with bows and swords. At their lead, a man in furred collar and heavy, demon stained silver armour.

"Cassandra, our swords are yours. Those men you saved said of your advance on the Chantry with the prisoner." he searched the small group, finally settling grimly on Calathea. His lips thinned, and she could feel a nullifying presence to him, dampening her very energy somewhat. Uncomfortably, she shifted away, feeling the effect lessen with distance. A templar.

"Commander Cullen, so good to see you. It has been observed that she can close small rifts. We plan to seal the Breach."

Below them, there were no demons, but from speaking to Varric, they demons poured much faster out when she'd come close to the rift. The only way to close it endangered people. It was a necessary cost then. The templar Cullen nodded, moving his soldiers that had made it through the pass like any veteran might, placing the archers high but in full vantage of the Breach, ordering those with swords to follow 'Cassandra's party'.

Then they moved, by no means an organised hunt or used to each other down to the crater. Only the pain of the wound mark on her hand intensifying. The only times it hadn't hurt were when Solas had used his magic with hers in some way. But the pain would be over soon.

Solas approached the rift at the base of the Breach, a crystalline form hovering over them, luminous green crackling on obsidian coloured facets. He put a hand up, closing his eyes, jaw set hard. Finally he spoke. "It's not open or closed. It's like a door ajar. We need to force it open to close it properly, the Fade bleeds through any crack it can."

From the uneasy grimaces so many had, one didn't need a mage to guess that. Cassandra motioned her forward. "Try." she nodded, her nerves alighting in twitching, uncontrollable spasm as she bared her wound to the rift. The crystals spun and hissed, steam pouring off them in black plumes that hung heavily on the ground. "On your guard for anything men!"

Calathea forced her eyes open, shades slithering like oily, sable snakes and something much larger pushing their way into the waking world. Finally it barged out, flinging the Dalish elf to the rubble strewn ground as to stomped past. A demon of Pride. Its' garguantuan weight shook the loose rock.

The soldiers were well-trained the twang of bowstrings and clang, squelch of swords against corporeal demons. The scream of a man as a shade pushed through his body - except it didn't. It took root in him. His fellows were shocked.

Without thinking, she slammed her wounded hand into the ground, screaming in agony as sharp stone met her mark. The ancient Keeper magic tunneled through the shifting rock, roots and branched breaking through his leathery soles and up in his bones, bringing vengeful lightning to course through his body.

The demon had taken the man, but he would not take his comrades. With a grunt of exertion, the spell having worked, she stumbled onto her feet, the staff in her good and and trying to channel everything else left at the Breach - to close it like the rift before.

Nothing happened when she felt lashed. Lightning scorched up her back and the Dalish spun full of rage, the positively laughing Pride holding a pure rope of lightning in armoured hand. So it liked lightning? Well despite her lacking control in fire, that which could withstand lightning hated fire. The staff sang in her hand at the change in will, awakening with the burning element surging through the crude core.

The fire erupted in a blaze of no precise aim, joining the inferno on it's shoulders like a mere torch next to a bonfire. The Dalish First glowered at Solas, and his skill with the element. Her back ached, bared to the air that bit the blistering, growing welt. Her robes were ruined, not that she would need them when dead.

Leliana staked up the demon of Pride like a waterskater on a pond, daggers barely digging in but enough to hold her weight. Eventually, among the flames that licked around her but didn't set on the human, she wrapped her thighs around its' neck. The woman screamed, driving both daggers deep in between insectoid eyes. Black blood poured down the behemoth demon. It swiped at her but the agile human had left her daggers in exchange for a quick leap from the height, landing on her side in the rubble.

"Now!" Solas shouted, as if far away and right in her ear. Calathea took no time to process the shout, throwing all her magic left at the Breach.

It was pain, sweet and cruel. It pierced through her, splintering and taking everything inside, more than she gave. A slow trickle of hot blood ran down from her nose, filling her mouth with the metallic tang. Her eyes streamed and eardrums popped as the sound of the Breach protesting filled the air. It was louder than the rift more than imaginable, getting higher pitched as she braced her aching bones against the rushing resistance.

All at once, she was cradled but everything and nothing.

Then blackness.


	5. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer:** As before, BioWare and EA own Dragon Age, and also my soul.

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**Chapter Four**

"Help me!" the voice kept calling for aid, it was hurt.

Then her own voice filtered through the darkness. "What, is going on here?"

"Please help me!" the same voice pled. There was a commotion of sorts, the sting of magic.

"Kill the elf!"

Then nothing. And all darkness, the golden woman, and running from the darkness. It made no sense.

And in those fevered visions, a constant presence behind her, angry and shocked, more than curious, it wanted to seep into her bones and take everything away, it wanted to know. But above that, it feared her.

Names forgotten to the ages whispered to her, Geldauran, Daern'thal, and Anaris. Their spite, their hatred tried to suffocate the mage, it made her feel plagued. But the fearful presence fought them away, it had claimed any right to her here, it was the first to see her.

But she could not hold fear for that. It was if she had no capacity for such a feeling.

Calathea woke with a start, her skin clammy with sweat, skin feeling abused and muscles aching. She huffed heavily, as if she'd truly been running in the waking world and not just the Fade. There were covers over her body, dampened. The air smelled of the apothecary herbs Keeper Istimaethoriel used, burned and dried, laved over bruises and cuts. Her skin was sticky with their residue as much as it run with sweat.

It was then that the door creaked slowly open, a slim, humming figure shuffling in. Calathea gathered the blankets up, her nakedness covered. Their soft fibers stuck to her flushed skin. "Oh Andraste!" the figure blurted when it saw her, dropping the box in its' hands. She was elven, not marked with vallaslin, hair a choppy russet. She twisted her fingers, her eyes afraid, reverential. "I... I didn't know you were awake."

"Hamin, be calm, I shan't hurt you." Calathea soothed, gathering the covers around her like a sheet robe, she stepped onto the wooden floor, feeling a shift in her inner magical energy which spurred her back onto the over-soft bed. She glanced at the floor in wonderment, seeing shoots having burst from the dead wood. The Keeper magic... but it worked with the earth! It worked to awaken dormant roots deep in the soil, not to bring dead plants to life! It didn't work like that!

Mythal'enaste! The elf backed away, her eyes fixed solely on the floor and budding shoots, a pale green that unfurled with small, jagged leaves. "Lady Cassandra wanted to know when you was up, she said right away. I'll... I need to go."

"Wait!" Calathea blurted. "Why are you afraid? I didn't mean to scare you." she turned slowly on her heels, still backing away.

"They say you're the Herald of Andraste messere, that you was delivered from the Fade by Her. Everyone saw Her guide you safely from the demons. Then you stopped the Breach from growing, you stopped the demons from invading." her eyes had blown wide just looking at her, stuttering and stopping every so often before being coaxed back into talking. Calathea gulped, this elf believed this, it was obvious.

Her own beliefs, were not with the human Maker and Andraste. She knew their tale, city elves which had joined the Lavellan clan divulged as much. She could not berate someone for their faith, no more than she would wish the same. "They say that? And who are they?" she asked softly, hoping that she could know just what in the Fade was going on. Her mind told her that she was a prisoner, suspect of killing the human Divine of the Chantry. It told her that somehow she'd survived stopping the Breach? It wasn't gone from what she gathered, but it had stopped growing?

The elf fumbled with her fingers. "I... I really need to tell Lady Cassandra you're awake. But everyone's saying it." she went to flee again.

"Are there any clothes here?" she called out. If Cassandra wanted to see her, she'd have to get out of this bed, get dressed, get some food! Her stomach pinched, and she tried to remember her last meal. It was with Felgan, elfbread, a fruity, nutty flatbread cooked over a campfire, spread with rosehip pickle.

"In the dresser!" the elf hurriedly replied, slamming the door shut behind her.

With a grimace of shooting pain, she threw the sheet on the wooden floorboards between bed and dresser, stepping on it lightly and checking the shoots hadn't grown any more with a suspicious eye. Satisfied that the sheet protected the wood from this seeping magical talent, the Dalish First took care to search for something inside the dresser that was warm, finding brown woolen tights, a pale olive woolen robe with metal clasps in swirling patterns, and a darker green scarf in thin, threadbare woven fur. She laid them out on the bed, crouching underneath to see soft doe-skin shoes that looked to wrap around the foot before secured with a stag pin.

She was hurting though. The damage needed to be assessed, ancient magics envoked to aide healing. She was not as stable on her feet as she'd have liked, stepping onto the woven rag-rug in front of a full length mirror.

Her short hair had been washed of dark spume, the rich honey bouncing bouffant on her head as it did, mussed from sleep, her cheek on one side was marked with a dark, bruise, all but black at the centre before fading to purple, yellow and sickly green at the very edges. Even the dark burgundy of her vallaslin, blood-coloured markings carved into her face for reverence of their Gods, were raised like scars. Her hands shook angrily at the state she was in, twisting to look at her bare back.

It was lined with a thick welt, like a true whip, the branching pattern of scarring that lightning left marking the curve of her spine in red which became peach at the trailing ends. She scowled, hands shaking with anger at the state the demons had left her in.

She sat in front of the mirror, trying to breathe deeply, trying to calm herself as she recited the rites of ancient healing magic. She tied off a portion of her inner magic, feeling it untamed against her control as she wrangled with her inner self, the force of it leaving a cool burn in her lungs and lighting her palms she pushed the magic inward again, worming through her muscles and skin, hands darkening.

Satisfied with the decreased pain, she gradually toned the rushing power, focusing on her breathing. Healing was not for a battlefield, not ancient healing like this. No, it was for quiet, dark moments.

Calathea opened her eyes, shocked to see the rug beneath her knees sprouted with downy grass, a brown edged variety used to make cloth. She grit her teeth, angry with her lacking control. It wasn't supposed to be like this. No. The First was supposed to be trained enough to take the place of the Keeper should the need arise. This was not right. Her magic was not just uncontrolled, but powerful.

Knowing that she had no choice, she practiced for a few moments, naked in the room with the grass beneath her knees. She brought her hands together, a blue flame in the cupped palms. The green mark looked all but healed too, just visible like a luminous scar of sorts behind the flickering.

The point of the task was to protect your hands from the flame, while maintaining it. It improved your control, your willpower. Keeper Soralan insisted on it daily, to centre themselves before doing any studies.

At first, the dead skin that protected your skin would burn off, leaving fresh skin underneath. But then it took your skill as a mage to stop it from burning.

It was almost too easy. She felt the heat, the searing crackle of it, but it did not hurt. Testing herself, she pushed harder into the magic, feeling sweat prickle down her bare back. The flames rose, and engulfed all of her arms. But it still came easily.

She could feel the strain on her will, yet it was easy. It was wrong.

With a sneer, Calathea ended the exercise, hoping she'd exhausted her inner magical energy enough not to make her clothes start growing.

She hurried to get dressed, stretching the thick tights over her bony knees and shuffling the odd shoes, pinning them on with the stags. They looked rather smart for their borrowed nature, not made for her, too much room in the toes.

But the Dalish elf wasn't used to shoes, so it was welcome to have space. She pulled the robe on, fiddling with each of the clasps from neck to knee that did up, the robe open from knee to ankle. She pulled the woven fur scarf around her middle, securing it to hold the robe to her waist.

It was vain, but she looked in the mirror again, admiring the look. It struck her that the clothes were specifically made from animals, not plants. Had she been growing cotton and hemp in covers during her sleep! How embarrassing! At least it was less visible to anyone if she happened to have an outburst.

"I wonder." she spoke aloud, looking down at the box the fearful elf had dropped. It was heavy as she lifted onto the bed, opening the top to reveal a linen wrapped package. Curiosity overtook her, and she slipped the linen off. "My pressing book!"

It had survived! It was indeed heavy, clasped shut with a sturdy belt so the drying herbs at the back would be compressed. That, and because vellum was rare enough to have a book, that additional pages had been added inside, pushing the spine out of shape. It was battered, worn leather, frayed from a halla trying to taste it, but it was the book of a Keeper's First. It held the ancient spells she couldn't fit in her head, it listed potions and tinctures, star patterns, poetry, tales... it was hers.

Under the wrapped book, her palm-less, finger-less gloves lay. They were wolf-leather, embroidered in the same pattern as her vallaslin. Had Cassandra or Leliana found these and known? Had they been taken before and given back?

Either way, she was overjoyed. Material, ephemeral objects. But they were something that was her own, and nobody elses. She fashioned the linen into a crude sling, tying her book inside it and slipping her gloves on.

It made her feel more herself. She smiled weakly, pushing herself to leave the room with the belongings and borrowed clothes. As she stepped into brilliant sunshine which blinded her with the glare off the snow, she had to shield her eyes.

Whispers hurried on the wind, deep tones and excited pitches. She looked about warily for someone to direct her to Cassandra. "Excuse me, would you know where Cassandra is?" she asked of a soldier who was polishing his chestplate. He looked at her, gulping and shaking before he pointed up toward a large building. He saluted smartly as she moved away from him. Calathea furrowed her brow.

He feared her.

All the humans and elves she passed acted in the same peculiar fashion, some dropping their work to salute or bow their heads at her steps. The feeling was awkward, and incredibly observed. Some muttered, their breaths ragged and uneven.

The Dalish elf hurried to the stone building, slamming the door behind her, feeling small shoots touching her palms on the wood. She sprung from it, gnashing her teeth. She was already sick of this, she wanted it to stop!

 _'Foolish. That is what you are. You ignite fires and walk blindly through them!'_ The voice was everywhere and nowhere, filling her head with rebellious whispers.  _'How can you be?'_ It asked.

Was she descending into madness? Had a demon taken her body like that man and shade by the Breach? Had she not even realised?

Yet there was no fear of it. It was just anger. How dare it! How dare it take her without even a glimmer of consent. "I am not your slave!" she screamed, shocked that the words had slipped from her lips. She was talking to it now. How mad.

"The Herald of Andraste!" a woman declared, "you never could be!" she bowed low, her knees all but touching the floor.

Calathea almost couldn't breathe. "Where is Cassandra?"

"Lady Pentaghast is in the room at the end, Herald." the woman directed, her voice was reverential. The elf nodded grimly. She'd not confirmed or denied that belief. If they wished to, let them have their own minds.

She ran, the robes bustling around her softly and book banging on her aching back. She opened then slammed the door behind her, glaring at the occupants of the room darkly. "What is happening to me?" she growled.

The room was populated by the Chancellor from before, Cassandra, and Leliana. Both women looked hale, if flustered to an extent. "We can talk about that in a moment." Leliana soothed in a calm voice. The elf sighed heavily, trying to centre herself.

"As I was saying. It is blasphemy! The elf caused the explosion and killed our Divine! She only closed that demonic portal because her life was at stake!" the Chancellor hissed, spittle collecting in the edges of his lips. Cassandra glared at him.

"Did she? We have our doubts." she responded calmly. Calathea swelled slightly at the trust. No longer a suspect! "But it is true, our Divine is dead and the culprit, not this elf, might still be out there, the mission of the Conclave has failed."

"Then we need to elect a new Divine and follow her orders!" the Chancellor shouted.

Leliana dropped something on the table, a book covered in gold leaves that meshed into each other and made patterns like eyes. "Yes, Leliana. These are our orders. The Divine feared the Conclave might be fruitless, and granted us, her Left and Right Hands, the right to act." she pat the top reverently. "Do you know what this is, Chancellor Roderick?"

He scowled at her. "Do tell."

"It is a writ, from the Most Holy herself. To invoke the Inquisition of old. We will seal the Breach proper, we will end the Mage-Templar War, and we will avenge Justinia with her last decree. And that is with or without your Chantry support!" Cassandra punctuated her declaration with a proud puff of her chest and a bang of her fist on the table, wobbling the tankards on it.

"Then carry out this foolish endeavour without it!" he huffed, bustling past the Dalish elf, his white and red robes flurrying around him as he stormed, shouting of blasphemy. Leliana closed the door again.

Once they could no longer hear his shouts, Cassandra sagged, dropping onto a chair with the book on her lap. "What is an Inquisition?" Calathea asked.

Leliana answered. "Over a thousand years ago, when the Chantry formed, the Inquisition worked on the words of Andraste Herself, they spread the Chant of Light with a sword, bringing mages into the care of the Circles. Then, when their task was done, they hung their swords up, forming the Seekers of Truth in service to the Divine, and the Templar Order to protect the mages." she tilted her head, her lips pulling into a frown. "It was a way to act independent of approval for the word to be spread, for order to be restored to a wartorn world."

"Of course, even the Dalish have knowledge of Andraste and Shartan, marching on the Tevinter Imperium," she braced her teeth together, bringing her jaw forward because of the severe overbite as she thought. "of course the world would have not been used to any peace. War would reign."

"And the Inquisition brought order to that." Cassandra muttered tiredly. She smiled though when Calathea had mentioned Andraste. Even the Dalish acknowledged her existence, they simply didn't revere the war maiden as the humans did. "And now, a new Inquisition."

"And you need to close the Breach properly. I... think I know how." the elf muttered. It was obvious that what they'd done, was at best, temporary. Both Leliana and Cassandra caught that, glaring at her. Before they could ask, she answered them. "The Breach tried to take as much magic from my body, drained reserves I didn't know about, even a rift tried to take my entirety. We need more power."

"That would explain it. Solas explained that your capacity for magical power had... expanded exponentially somehow, that the plantlife would react to..." Leliana glanced over at a earthenware pot, picking it up and placing it on the table. "Just put a finger on the soil."

Cautiously, in case the live soil might react violently to the magic that poured like invisible smoke from her skin, Calathea touched the pad of her index finger to the damp sod. The sound was incredible, the rushing, splintering of a small tree, roots breaking the pot in seconds and soil littering in white tangles of root as they spread on the table. It was a sapling in size, but shaped like a full tree, growing round, vivid green apples. But it was so cold! Apples didn't grow like that except in summer and autumn! Cassandra backed away from it, dusting the book from scattered pot rubble and soil with a tunic cuff. Leliana nodded. "It is true then. I shall have to find some full kid-gloves for you to wear. You should have seen the growing forest around the Breach. Quite the spectacle, it feeds from the magic of the Breach even if it is closed."

Calathea gulped. "Truly? Elgan'nan, and I suppose Solas knows how to stop this?"

"He suggested some exercises he knows of, to stretch you into your new magical potential. We cannot have this happening without due cause." Leliana explained. Her voice was so soft, understanding.

"Have you seen this before?" she asked, brows pinching together.

"Once, in the one they call the Hero of Ferelden. But of course... she found help." the redhead pursed her lips, unwilling to divulge more.

"So will you help the Inquisition?" Cassandra asked.

"Close the Breach? End a war that will consume not just mage and templar if left unchecked?" the Dalish elf asked. Cassandra nodded. "I have little chance to say no, considering my singular ability with rifts and such. But yes, I shall."

The woman smiled, genuine and relieved. "Good. I shall have Commander Cullen send correspondence to Val Royeaux. Even without Chantry support, we might need it."

"And I have a question. Why am I a Herald of Andraste?" Leliana and Cassandra looked at each other, a worrying glance shared between the two.

Leliana straightened out. "When you received your mark, we all saw you delivered from the Fade by a golden woman, she wore glittering robes of a divine, caring woman. Some wondered if it was a demon, and others believed it to be Andraste, showing an active hand in the world again for the Maker." Calathea sucked in a deep breath. Oh Elgan'nan. "When you stopped the Breach from spreading, stopped the horde of demons that would have destroyed us all? Nobody believed it was a demon. It had to be Andraste."

"And you believe this too?" she asked.

Cassandra and Leliana shared another glance. "Possibly." Cassandra answered.


	6. Chapter Five

**Author note:** In my mind, there would be a period of time between being told about the Inquisition, and doing anything. A day in the least to inform anyone of their place, maybe a few days to get Josephine there if she's nearby anyway.

And Solas wasn't supposed to dislike her this much. Rivalmances! I always write something that starts out a rivalmance! Guh, predictable author...

Cookies for whomever guesses correctly which dance I'm referencing in this chapter.

 **Disclaimer:** BioWare and EA own the rights to Dragon Age, and it's world.

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**Chapter Five**

With every inch of her hands enclosed in kid gloves in case of accidents, floor of the room she'd been assigned with a small pathway of furs, the matter of the growing of plants was put to temporary rest.

It was later that evening, after a supper of thin broth, among the army that Calathea met Solas again. The Dalish had elf settled far from the campfire the soldiers were clustered around, he barely restrained a groan as he approached. "Elgan'nan, I can move if you wish it."

"Seeker Cassandra told me you need help with your magic." he stated, looking off into the distance. She snapped her First's book shut, carefully pulling the belt around it tight and slipping it back in the linen sling. She just hmm'ed at his statement. "Then we might need to move away from so many people."

She looked at him through her lashes, studying the fellow apostate. He did not shave his head, there was no stubble there, but he did not look as old as a man who should be balding. The angles of his face were wide, and jawline tight. "Tell me what I have done to deserve scorn, as far as I know, I met you on the day we halted the advance of the Breach, you met me unconscious three days before."

"Just follow, neither of us will find this appealing." Solas replied evenly. She pursed her lips, gnashing her teeth but nevertheless following. There were precious few mages from the Chantry Circles left in Haven, each knew nothing to aide her. If he could, even alleviate this damned condition of sorts, then it would be welcomed. Shoes were confining.

She allowed her mind to wander, moving along the dark boughs above them and the evergreen needles that spiked the branches. The snow smelled of wet tin to her, and the Veil wrapped softly on her skin, ignoring the barrier of clothing. As a mage, it was like welcoming an old friend. He finally stopped at a rocky outcrop, swept of snow and raised like a dais. He stepped lightly over it, twisting into a cross-legged position near the centre, wordlessly gesturing for her to sit opposite. She watched him the whole time, sitting carefully and laying her linen sling by her side.

He watched as much as she. "Do you need that? A mage should know all their spells."

"I do, I know my limits, how can I keep any semblance of control if I worry over the potency of a stomach soother or a rite for child-birth, how to read the stars or the third line of Fen'Harel's curse?" she could hear the fellow elf gritting his teeth. He picked it up swiftly, flinging it off the dais.

"You haven't those limits now." he put it, malice seeping into his tone.

"Seth'lin! My Keeper gave me that book when I manifested magic!" Calathea hissed, scrambling away toward her book. She gathered it up, fingers pressed into the flat teeth marks in the leather, nostrils flared. "It might not be a relic of any importance, but it is mine. I cherish this. I have done no disrespect to you, or something of yours! I expect the same in return."

 _'Blind girl.'_ The voice from before hissed. Solas shifted uncomfortably. So it was a demon? He could hear it here? The Veil did feel... abused.

"I'm not listening to it. It just spews hatred, and secretly fears. Let it reside amongst it's kin in the Beyond, where it belongs." the voice had come back a few times, when she felt her magical energies wavering, expanding somewhat, their nebulous feeling strange inside. It tried to make her weak. It was only that he could hear it too, that she even shared the acknowledgment of the entity with Solas. It was like the strange fearing presence in the Fade, the one which had decided to claim her.

He nodded sagely. "Good. You have more control than I assumed." it was a half-compliment, edged on the other side with an insult, but it was better than nothing. One took what one could get.

"Well." she shrugged. Calathea sat back down, carefully putting her book behind her and out of his reach. "You wished to help me?"

"Remove your gloves, and just... listen to the Veil."

The Dalish First slipped them off, stretching her fingers in the cold, dark evening. She laid them on her knee. They'd been gifted by Leliana, and were rather small for a human to have. She did feel awkward though, like a hunter who hadn't stretched beforehand and was asked to run a few miles, or climb a tree. The chill seeped through her borrowed robes.

It filled her slowly, like icy water. Then she was somewhere else, feeling centuries beneath her fingertips, more time than she could possibly count in a lifetime passing inside hot eyelids. All the while, it was as if she were a being made of pure energy, magic alone, no flesh resistance.

This was not falling asleep, it was actively seeking the Fade, the Beyond. Calathea needn't have felt she had a body, but it was simpler for the mind to conjure one - to imagine a self without physical form was often tiring. She opened her eyes, awakening in a spring glade, brilliant sunshine pouring through verdant leaves high above.

Solas sat on a rocky seat, his legs crossed and eyes shut before they opened suddenly. The other mage sprang into action, but his action was fierce. He spat curses in elvish, searching the air for something. "What did you do? Where are they?" he asked, harshly advancing at her.

There was no time for fear as she braced her arms up, feeling furious fingers digging into her skin. Calathea snarled. "Did what? Who are you looking for?"

His severe face softened, he looked away. "How did I not see?" he looked away. "When did denizens of the Fade start to fear you?"

She pursed her lips. "The Dalish have rituals to heed summer and winter, magic to..." she trailed off. "Why would you care? You're not Dalish!"

Solas sighed, running a hand over his head. He paced. "Just tell me, if it's magic, then it has affected your presence in the Fade."

Calathea set her jaw stubbornly, jutting it as far as her overbite allowed. "Keepers must dance, dance with the summer to coax her bounty, and dance in the winter, to ensure the cycle of the two does not continue. The magic... is ancient. I noticed that in the last winter dance, that those spirits that guided my healing were whispers, that demons rarely bothered me in slumber. It was the first I had completed on my own, our Keeper was sickly so it was purely my own magic which had to call to the winter."

His jaw went slack as he listened, breath coming in short huffs. A bitter wind blew through the summery glade. "You invoked old magic? Magic that hadn't been used in centuries?"

"It was used every year!" she protested. "I thought it normal. I haven't heard a word from demon or spirit until that voice we both heard! It isn't important."

He shook his head. "Isn't important? You awoke something. It has claws around your throat. Spirits and demons don't fear you, they fear him. They notice you more! He scares them! And now you can't control your own self... he will hunger!"

Solas' words shook through her. "You know this?" she questioned sceptically. The fellow apostate huffed.

"I find where the Veil is thin, ruins of castles, battlefields. The spirits press keenly, feeling everything there. They share their knowledge of the past reenacted, soldiers dying, hard decisions. You think I never saw anything of the ancient elves? Their rites?"

Unwittingly, she gasped. Feeling stung. "You know? And never thought to share this with anyone?"

"I should have. You... and your magic awoke this. And I... I will have to train you to fight him." Solas walked away, picking up an ordinary stick which elongated into a fine staff. He threw it at her, and the Dalish First caught it, feeling a scrape against her palms. It sang to the Keeper magic, to the lightning in her veins. It was more than perfect to hold.

Here, she could feel his magic, sculpting the Fade like an artist craftsman, it bloomed and shattered in her core. "None of that." he muttered.

"None of what?"

"Leaving your head, you did it on route to the stone dais too. Focus inwardly, listen to your own self." he explained, as if to a da'len. She chastised herself for the mistake, or for being caught.

"So what need I do, to understand who I am now? To understand how to fight, whatever this is, him?" Calathea asked, trying to focus inwardly. Inside, she could feel that fire of the exercise Keeper Soralan taught, rather than held on her palms, held inside, trying keep it lit while protecting herself.

"That... that fire trick? Too simple. You need to physically fight him, because he will come." he pursed his lips. For once, the elf seemed to glimmer, he looked happy.

"Who is he? Why would  _my_  magic wake him?" she asked, she felt awkward as he fashioned a staff for himself. Solas turned that brief gaiety lost from his face, seriousness overcoming him. He swayed between moods like there was only space for one, quashing the others for later where they lingered like undertones.

"He is more ancient than you would believe, his name means nothing now. And  _your magic_? I haven't a clue." he frowned. "If I knew, I could help more."

"Elgan'nan." she sighed.

"Older." he breathed.

Her eyes widened. Older than their Gods? "Then whatever you need to teach, I only hope I can learn."

Everything seemed to haze at the edges, darkness creeping into the summer glade. "Then a lesson. Push the darkness away. Be only light."

And it brightened more than her eyes could handle, hues of every colour in the rainbow and more she'd never imagined. Each vibrant and blinding. The Fade shook with the power of it.

Calathea gasped, waking with her cheek on wet stone, dirty moss having stained her skin. Her lungs felt burned out, and the moss spread under her like wildfire on dry wood. Solas blinked awake opposite, his chin resting on his collarbones. He watched the moss keenly, seeing it bud with bistre seeds which were caught up in the wind, like a rug of soft fibers under the two elves. He hmm'ed.

"More powerful than I thought. I shall have to think of something different. Put your gloves back on." he gestured at the kid gloves, and she shuffled them on embarrassed. Calathe brushed the much off her cheek.

A few revelations. "Mas serannas, Hahren. I... I feel slightly more in control, if it helps." she said before leaving the stone clearing.

Solas pursed his lips. "Ma nuvenin, Da'len."

And she groaned back. As an act of rebellion, she allowed her mind to slip outside the confines of her head as she walked, exploring the intricacies, the iridescent lines of the Veil where it waxed and waned, the way loose pine needles sprayed through them, rippling patterns in the weaker layers.

 _'And I am now more intrigued than before.'_ Calathea shivered at the voice of him... the one that was dogging her now.


	7. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer** : As always, BioWare and EA own Dragon Age (until I finish my plot to own both companies - mwahahaha, and produce DLC on Solas enough to sink a ship!)

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**Chapter Six**

They could not wait for official word, not with active rifts that would have demons eking from them by the hour. The most afflicted, was in Ferelden - where refugees from the Mage-Templar war had been displaced for months. If rifts opened there, civilians would die.

Despite the civil war in Orlais, they had chevaliers. Ferelden had hundreds upon thousands of refugees, and a lot of the Mages and Templars using the land as a battleground.

Cassandra pushed them to go to the Hinterlands to the south, north-west of where the infamous Fifth Blight of Archdemon Urthemiel had started. Varric agreed, starting by helping the people was a good start, rather than just appealing to nobles and the Chantry.

And so, each who had stood together against the Breach to halt it's growth, were given the horses they had, shod so their feet tore at the turf beneath the snow. Calathea frowned atop the mount. "I feel wrong. This is a noble creature, he does not deserve to be burdened with my weight." she voiced.

It had become colder, but luckily a few surviving soldiers were very skilled, using old quilts to fashion long coats for them as they'd be on the road.

There were tents, bedrolls, food... it all needed to be sourced. Varric and Calathea went out with soldiers often, taking the archers to hunt fowl and deer, the warriors to fish the icy streams, cutting deep into the ice layer. Even Cassandra came to fish once, but found the task too slow for her temperament.

Now, with a scouting group geared as well as possible, each horse the Inquisition had, used, they set off. They were ready. Such things were hardly easy to set up.

With a clan, they already had aravels, and plenty of food stored over winter. If they needed to make such frantic, emergency hunting, it was because of a grave mistake.

Solas shook his head. "If they detested a rider or load, we could not ride."

Cassandra nodded. "And we cannot push them on mountain passes. We couldn't push ourselves either."

The Dalish elf rolled her eyes, bundled up in the makeshift clothes, carefully covered in animal-made fabrics before the cotton quilt coat. The only bare skin was between wide-brimmed leather hat, and scarf - her ears, eyes and cheeks - all pink in the cold. "Is it warmer in the Hinterlands? My clan hardly roamed this far south, normally the northern reaches of Ferelden and Orlais was our southernmost journeying."

Since training some more with Solas, he'd dissuaded her from fire based spells. For all her added power, the spells weren't something that worked with her magic. She hadn't realised how her daily exercise with flames in her palms warmed her.

He actually tried to consult one of his spirit friends to get them to come to her regarding healing, despite this ancient awoken creature that was dogging her in the Fade. Alas, learning magic was a slow process, and she was still stretching to her new potential. Varric chuckled. "It's south, just as cold but without the wind it won't be snowy."

"Wonderful." she breathed, shivering. And she'd run out of a lot of herbs in helping the injured, her First's Book was empty of elfroot and ginger, as well as a few lesser used curative herbs. Varric barked a laugh out.

She shouldn't complain so, not a week ago, the world was ending and they believed her to be the cause. But a week ago, the snow didn't climb another two feet each night, needing paths to be dug to move come morning light. A week ago, people hadn't stopped to shake her hand or simply stare in wonderment.

Cassandra rode ahead them, back straight as she rode. She turned her head, the tip of her tan nose red from the cold "Just think, we are more lucky here, others lack basic blankets and full bellies," she frowned visibly. "the Chantry should help such poor souls, but even here, such charity is lacking."

"Then we remind your Chantry of its' role to your people." Calathea rallied cheerlessly. For all her strength, Cassandra had been holding them together, making arrangements with Commander Cullen and the appointed spymaster - Leliana. Calathea had observed, as she was the one with the mark on her hand, the one proclaimed as 'Herald of Andraste'. It seemed the last few days had been hunting, fishing, listening, and learning. No rest. Not that she had rest often, but there was no rest.

Even being polite to people was beginning to wear on the Dalish mage. "Would you? Are you even a believer in the Maker?" Cassandra asked flippantly.

"I may not be, but who am I to spurn the belief of another? I shouldn't wish someone to preach their word at me, and I would extend a courtesy of not preaching my own. If your Chantry provides help for those who cannot help themselves, that in itself is good, I need not believe in its' God to agree with such acts." she huffed, trying to hold tightly to the reigns of the horse, trying to keep her feet in the stirrups. It was well trained, plodding obediently after the lead horse Cassandra rode, it also didn't complain at her lacking balance atop it or squirming. For that, the elf was thankful at least.

There was a stunned silence between the four of them. "I hadn't expected such honesty... nor understanding."

"I haven't time to lie." she responded quickly. "But do not underestimate me."

"So what are you telling people about the glowing hand of doom when they start asking?" Varric asked, over-exaggerating the 'of doom' by stretching the 'oo'.

"That it closes rifts. It may or may not have been given by a God or messenger of a God, but I am useful and I am here." she sniffed. It was interrogations like this which made her feel odd. A proper Dalish should have defended her Gods, scorned the shemlen Maker and Andraste. A proper Dalish would never let there be doubt that she disapproved of being seen as an idol of false religion.

But as a First, she understood the comfort it brought. City elves joined her clan. Keepers Soralan and Istimaethoriel had insisted they worshiped the Creators. But they did not, she heard soft prayers in Common at night as she recited Uthernera for Soralan, her aravel close to a bonded pair of elves originally from Starkhaven. Only an inner faith gave true comfort in sadness. It was... logical, to allow it, to not tell Istimaethoriel of their hushed prayers. The Creators gained nothing from resentful, forced worship.

Varric laughed. "I couldn't write that into a story. I need a dashing God charging in, sweeping you into service to Thedas, a bit of angst, a bit of struggle, then an epic battle. You know, everyday hero stuff."

She chuckled lightly. "And this Hawke of yours, he had all elements of a good story, that is why you wrote him?"

"Gareth... oh boy. You two would get on like peas in a pod. Where have you got up to, out of curiosity?" the dwarf grinned. His copy of 'The Champion's Tale' was rather... worse for wear. For one, it had large cuts in half the pages - right in the centre. It looked like it had been stabbed. Maybe he'd carried it and the book saved his life?

Calathea shook her shoulders out. "Hawke had just killed the slavers in his family estate and was storming back to his uncle in a great anger, will of Astride Amell in hand?" she hoped her pronunciation was correct. She struggled somewhat with Common in written form, though she'd tell no-one. Elvish, the language of Keepers, of magic, the letters she'd learnt as a fledgling with barely a wisp of magic in her, was simpler. Dwarven runes helped all nomadic people, because signposts were written in such.

She would never tell how slowly she read Common, finger trailing under the words and tongue stuck through her lips. Her mind slipped the confines of her head, drifting on the freezing wind. "Ah, you'll like the next bit. Great argument, very logical man my Hawke."

She hmm'ed slowly, body working without thought. She looked to ride better when her mind wasn't thinking on it. How peculiar. Something snapped against her will, a chastising crack. She startled, noticing vibrations in the air like heat above a fire. "Stop it."

Her mind jumped back into her head, and she turned as if innocent at the voice. "Yes, Solas? Was the horse strafing too far across again?"

He narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips. Rather than angry, his anger seemed amusing. "Take care not to let that happen again." Solas said slowly.

"Ir abelas, Hahren." he scowled lightly at the jab. Mouthing 'Da'len' at her like a secret. Her mood lifted slightly, until Cassandra stopped abruptly and she fell forward in the saddle, a lump at the front she was supposed to hold for support poking into her stomach. The horse whinnied in protest.

Even their leading scout on accompanying 'Inquistion forces', a dwarf with apple'd cheeks, Scout Harding, laughed at her. Cassandra shook her head, trying not to laugh too.

Calathea brushed stray hair out her eyes, trying to sit properly again while the horse fidgeted in the snowy trail. "Mythal'enaste! What caused the stop?"

Cassandra straightened out, her face losing all previous signs of levity. She pointed ahead, at a slope with campfire. "There is someone ahead, and the snow is bloody beneath," she followed Cassandra's finger, grimacing at the slain ox in the crimson and brown snow, the cart half torn, a face of horror half covered by mud. "it shan't be safe for us."

"Then we have an alternate route? We let these murders go unheeded? In the clan, if one of our own was killed, vengeance was swift. Even one not of our own was given a decent return to the Gods." she jut her shivering jaw out, even if it was covered by the scarf.

Cassandra looked away uneasily. "We haven't any clue on the numbers of bandits." she said sternly.

"Ritts and me could go ahead, scope them out and report." Scout Harding offered, her small face a frown. "These poor sods, you're right. We're the Inquisition, we make this our business to avenge these sods, try and inform widows if we can figure our who they are, where they're from."

There was a quiet acceptance spreading through them, the Inquisition forces, over Cassandra, Solas, and Varric. Calathea couldn't help but smile at it. Cassandra had warned her, others would look up because of the 'Herald of Andraste' stigma, especially among their small forces. "Then stay out of sight and return swiftly Scout Harding, I expect your best."

The dwarf saluted happily, calling for a lanky human woman to follow her as they dismounted.

There was a warm, wonderful feeling in her chest. This was how a Keeper felt. They made decisions, they could harm others, but ultimately, it was about rightness. And these men died, they were not her people, but they were people.

_'How... interesting.'_

She gulped, feeling sick. No! He wouldn't keep in her head. Using the very crude 'being of light' tool Solas was trying to refine for her, she pushed inwardly on her will, flooding her own mind and gritting her teeth. "I... hadn't expected you to care for these men."

"They had no choice over who they were born as Cassandra, as I had no choice. I would not hate a man I didn't know for that." Calathea said slowly, tasting the Fade as bile under her tongue, trying to keep the light in her head. The presence that feared her backed away, a hissing warning at returning when she was weak, when she couldn't resist him. Warning that one day, she would chose him.

The warrior woman smiled, dismounting neatly, taking her sword and shield of a Seeker from the horse with a careful hand.

"And the more I speak to you, the less I feel you could have killed the Most Holy. I feel you would help us hunt the culprit to the ends of Thedas and beyond." she looked away, as if catching up with the word she spoke. "Do you need help getting off?"

The Dalish elf shook her head, slipping from the horse gracelessly and scrambling with the coat and robe when she noticed both were caught up on the saddle, she flushed darkly, pulling them back and hoping nobody else had noticed. Both Varric and Solas had no such problem with their horses. It almost wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair, but neither was this.

"The air is bracing, don't you think O Glowing One?" Varric stated casually, pursing his lips to the side as he seemingly noticed a new scratch on his crossbow. Calathea flushed darker, feeling all her blood go to her face. She'd burst a vein at this rate.

Before she could berate the dwarf even a little, Scout Harding had returned, a pleased expression on her face. "Oh you're going to love this, Herald. Bandits, a bit cleverer than the usual sort. About four holding a 'toll booth' ahead, and nine in a higher camp for reinforcements. Seems if we can't pay, they take it in blood, I'm only guessing though."

Cassandra frowned deeply. "Any hostages? Hoping for a ransom?"

"I said cleverer, but not that bright. We could take the top camp no problem with our archers, maybe strip it of anything valuable and try to find out who these poor bastards were. If your lot deal with the toll?"

"That seems most sensible." the Dalish mage took in a deep breath of cold air, summoning up a steeled aura of magical energy. It was more difficult now she'd expanded the reach of her energy, so quickly. The potential had always been there, and even now, she knew there were probably deeper depths to it, but to use too much magic in a single spell was worse than using too little. Magic was incredibly dangerous to those who couldn't use it properly. "Try not to alert those holding this 'toll booth'."

"We won't even alert the top camp." the dwarf smirked, turning about and ordering her men and women as only she knew how. Half stayed behind to keep the horses calm, mainly archers following Harding and Ritts up a shadowy path they'd gone up before.

The small group of two apostates, sarcastic dwarf, and shieldmaiden followed the mountain trail down, stomping on gory snow and scattered goods. They hadn't even stripped the cart of everything. They'd just killed them. There was no rhyme or reason to this, they killed for fun. It made their set task no less grim, but at least it eased her conscience slightly. They spoke hurriedly of a signal, a brief plan of attack.

Cassandra walked at the front, the most plausible leader of them all. Two men, both in leather and cloth armour, rusty chestplates that didn't fit them strapped on their fronts came out from behind the rocks on either side. Four - Scout Harding was good. "Halt, the toll is a sovereign a head." one of them grunted.

"That seems rather steep." Cassandra remarked.

"Price of keeping this place, bandit free as it were. You saw those wretched buggers, up the pass." he responded smartly.

"And if we don't pay?" the Seeker huffed. Anybody could see her ire rising.

"We assume you're a bandit." he chuckled darkly. "Nobody wants that eh?"

Cassandra seemed uncomfortable, putting her left leg back and shaking her head. "But good sers... we are no bandits. Merely poor travellers."

Varric was trying not to laugh as Calathea and Solas unleashed magical torrents on the true bandits.

One turning into ashes as everything that he'd been and wore was consumed by fire so hot it was white. Another convulsed, frothing at the mouth, falling on his mace with a sickening crack of his cheekbone.

Cassandra scowled, her shield ignored as she took her sword in two hands, dashing into an advancing, angered man. She was precise, and more disciplined that him as the edge caught him on exposed neck. He wailed, dropping his dual daggers in agony and dropping to the floor. Varric had taken out the only archer they had with his trust Bianca in two careful shots which boomed off the stone loudly. His crossbow was a powerful contraption, but it was so noisy!

Cassandra bore down on her quarry, sword poised under his bleeding chin. "You will not be murdering another soul." she hissed, quickly stabbing downwards, twisting with all her might and an almighty grunt.

Two elves and one dwarf glanced at each other. Varric cleared his throat. "Shit, I knew she was deadly but even I felt that. He's dead, Seeker. You can stop now."

Cassandra looked up, as if noticing them for the first time that day. She brushed a hand through her hair, yanking her sword from his mangled neck. "So he is."


	8. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer:** As always, I must remind everyone that I garner no monetary reimbursement for this work of love, nor do I expect any. Dragon Age belongs to EA and BioWare.

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**Chapter Seven**

Calathea awoke early, the wet smoke of their dying campfire from last night still clinging rebelliously to the sodden air. Fat raindrops fell sparse and little, filling what wasn't smoke, with a grassy aroma. All she needed was the cud scented burps and warm fur smell of halla and she'd be back among the People.

The horses were not the same, tied in sweet grasses, half asleep. Their smell was too different.

The Dalish elf sat in the edge of the tent she shared with Cassandra, looking out through the oiled canvas flaps. The land had quickly become less snowy and altogether brown, green, and damp. But of course, she loved it. Her cheeks were still warm from sleep.

She missed some things she had taken for granted. Such as hearing Felgan take the da'len of their clan out early to pick berries and nuts as he taught them of the Creators. He was such a good Hahren.

She would sing Uthernera for him, not just his father. She hoped they were together in the Beyond.

"Da'len?" she scowled, still melancholy from a night where everything she'd known was too far away. Solas was emerging from the conifers, his overlarge robes damp without his coat. As keenly as any hunter though, he'd spotted her. He strode quickly in long grasses.

As if it was the first time she noticed it, there was a dried foot on a leather string around his neck. Too large for a rabbit, for luck. Too dark for a fox. It looked like a small wolf's paw. She might ask its' meaning one day, as she still doubted if the fellow elf was a believer in the Creators. It wouldn't be for Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt.

"And I thought it just the mages among my clan who awoke so early that even birds turned in their beds for another hour." she clucked, feeling the uneven inside line of her teeth against her tongue. It was true though, mages seemed invigorated more through sleep - having been in the Fade, the Beyond. That was how Istimaethoriel always explained it.

Solas pursed his lips, restraining a chuckle at her foul mood. "Oh no, would you believe this very odd thing occurred? A mage who cannot control where her mind goes, slips the confines of her mind in sleep also! And your pursuer followed, scaring off my friends." at least he was sardonic, rather than angry. "I can only be glad he follows you with such dogged determination that I was ignored completely."

"And yet you sound upset by that." she huffed, her sadness aging her. This was one of the calmest moments, where she could think of all that had happened since she'd awoken in the aftermath of the Breach. Even waking up after she'd stopped its' growth hadn't been so calm. "Have any others awoken?"

He frowned, sighing deeply, he extended a hand, helping her stand into the slow rain. "No. So follow me, there is a place nearby where the Veil is thin. You might enjoy it."

She smiled ironically. "Another lesson? I cannot have a moment of serenity."

"It could be that. I haven't explored this one yet. But then again, I hadn't known another mage who could control falling into the Fade." it was a gift, and luckily she'd been born into a clan where the Keeper shared a modicum of that gift, even if he needed to force much of it with his blood magic. Maybe because he'd appealed to that vanity she had on that, she followed.

Despite, or perhaps because of the rain, they walked in companionable silence, the darkness of the night still sticking over the land like a shadow. Both of them seemed to enjoy the nuances of the silence, of nature greeting the day with the odd animal call, muffled by the gentle hiss of rain. Even the conifers smelled fresh, their scent rolling on morning mist. It stuck to her robes like the rain, coat left behind in the tent without a second thought.

But like all silences, it needed to be broken. "I recognise this place." Calathea blurted after a while. Cuts in the rough bark of trees as markers of where Dalish hunters had been, old and dark where the tree had healed itself. She felt sick, trying to forget the time they'd come this far south in her clan. The Alerion clan had changed migration pattern that year, and so they had also...

Then she was falling, the bottom of her stomach dropping out as she grasped for something tangible. The fall slowed, letting her drift on the wind like the frost. It was almost easier to be without body in this bruised, damaged part of the Fade. "Thea, da'len. I trust you."

Bile filled a mouth that wasn't there, an observer watching spirits acting a day that haunted a younger elf. She looked at a woman five years her junior, less careful, more passionate. She watched herself as Keeper Soralan entrusted her with an ironbark dagger he'd slit his palms with.

And there was that presence that was Solas, nearby, watching with the same muted curiosity that she did. Except, she knew how this played out. Would spirits be kind in reenacting such a ghastly scene?

The elderly elf, wrapped in layer upon layer of threadbare robes, almost a whole lifetime of clothing never wasted as another layer added - like an onion, he sat down, falling into a trance. As he started to truly dream, her younger image fell to her knees, whispering. "No. Keeper, I won't do it. I can't do what you ask."

It stabbed her again, that moment of hushed declaration. Another figure came into the hazy stage, tall and graceful like a feline. "Quiet, da'len. He wants to do this, he gave you more honour than I. It is for the People, so we may gain what we lost."

Her voice was soft, a thin blade that cut as keenly as a wire. "Timae, no. I shan't do it. He can't do this!" her younger self protested. Istimaethoriel, First of the Lavellan clan crouched down, leveling icy blue eyes on the yellow-green of the Second.

"You shall. Think of all the shemlen have taken from us, think of all we can have back. Da'len, the Keeper needs you to do this, and if you don't, it will haunt you." her younger self nodded dumbly. She remembered Istimaethoriel leaving to bring the fox to bind the demon, and watched as she huffed away.

Calathea felt her face falling, an older face. She wanted to look away. "Keeper, there are other ways. What if we forgot because it was wrong? Why can we not forge something new for the People?" she asked his prone, ensorcelled form. He didn't answer of course. With a final gulp of air, she took his pulse on his neck.

After a while of quiet watching of his body, the Keeper's eyes flew open. "I feel... wonderful." he purred ignoring her presence, "more aches and pains than I hoped for, but of course, it can be remedied quickly." it wasn't his soft voice, like worn leather heated by the sun. This voice was a serrated blade, it drew beads of blood, grasping around her. She felt it as keenly as she had that fateful day.

Blood steamed off his hands, trickling down his fingers as more fueled the spell. His skin became plumper, age falling away, his milky eyes becoming dark green again. As he lessened his age, his skin grew pale as the blood left it. There was a shocked gasp. "Thea! Get away from the Keeper!"

Istimaethoriel was back, her figure running back, the fox she'd held running away like any sensible creature should. Her younger self was frozen in place, eyes blown wide. "Keeper?" she asked in a whisper. Green eyes held so much malice, she couldn't look away. Eyes that had guarded her, cared for her. They were tools to the demon.

It took less than a second here for the spirit actors. She watched as the Second of the Lavellan clan drew her first lifesblood that would kill. The Second who had warned off bandits before, but not killed. She watched morbidly as her younger self acted without a moment's pause, falling behind Soralan in his rapture as the blood spell worked on his aged body.

She cut his throat so deep that it was less flesh and more open gash, there was blood everywhere, it coated everything, her fingers were sticky with it, she could feel it again. Her younger self howled over his body where it fell. "Seth'lin! You fool! How dare you have been tricked!" she huffed between sobs. His blood marked her face where she wept into his chest.

"Thea, come. No good will come of this." Istimaethoriel said sadly, trying to pry her away. She struggled against her elder, her new Keeper.

"No! He should have been wiser! He was! This isn't our Keeper!" she hissed like a wild animal, her face was bloody, not her own but she felt it as if it were. His body stirred, black smoke rising around him. With a frightened squeak, she thrust the dagger hard into his chest, twisting with a growl of rage. "No! You will not have him!"

Forcefully, she was pulled back, both by Istimaethoriel and Solas.

She was soaked in the slow rain, having started to fall heavier during the Fade wandering. Calathea sobbed. "How dare you." she whispered, to her Keeper, to those spirits for making her see it again, to Solas for taking her here.

His face was a mask of sorrow. "Ir abelas." he said softly, the first time anyone had said as much for those events. Istimaethoriel had moved on, as if it was nothing, bonding to Felgan, having her own da'len. But they stayed away from her. The whole clan did.

She killed the Keeper. It needed to be done, and Calathea had been the blade.

Then there was the dance, the dance of silence and shadow to keep the winter and summer turning on wheel. The dance which she performed without her new Keeper, her singular magic awakening something ancient that hounded her.

Calathea looked away from his pitying face. "No, he was foolish, and I did what was right. That demon would have done far worse than scared a da'len parading as a Second."

Solas made a low growl. He had seen her lowest, stolen it, and hated her for it. "I didn't know."

"Well, now you know." she shrugged, standing up and brushing twigs from her wet robes.

"No, I didn't know what I'd find here." he explained, grasping a sodden elbow tightly. Calathea turned, pulling her limb back.

She glared darkly. "And what other secrets that others buried have you observed? Who knows, with enough time I could have told you of that horrid day, but you stole that memory! You just..." she clenched her jaw tightly, grinding her teeth. Her fists curled at her sides, lightning tingling in her palm, fizzing against the mark that could close rifts. "I never wanted to see that, especially not again, I barely could have spoken of it. I might have, but you stole that chance."

She stormed back toward the encampment, dark blue fading into orange and pink, swollen grey clouds covering the most of the sky except for the little that let her see it. There was always the green hue to their edges, reflected from the colossal Breach to their north-west.

Vaguely, she heard Solas following her. He didn't speak, nodding to her as she slipped into the tent she shared with Cassandra. The warrior woman was still asleep, thankfully unknowing of her meander from camp.

For all the wavering belief of guilt in the Divine's death, Cassandra would always find Calathea untrustworthy. At least, she could grasp onto that certainty. Cassandra didn't trust her magic to be tamed, and she didn't still held onto a suspicion on Justinia's demise. It was comforting. Her clan mistrusted her after she'd killed the Keeper.

She tried to rationalise it, said that  _they_  had slain their Keeper, but of course, Istimaethoriel hadn't driven a dagger in his heart nor across his neck. She'd just done the funeral rites. "Cassandra? I believe we should wake and move." she shook her sleeping form gently, shuffling backwards as the warrior awoke with a start.

"What is the time?" she muttered, her accent thick on her tongue. Calathea stood, poking her head out of the tent and looking for the sun, or what signs of the sun there were behind the clouds. She returned, crouching. "About seven bells, give or take a half hour. I could start get a fire started and cook up something for breakfast?"

"Inform one of the scouting party. They won't expect the Herald of Andraste to cook." Cassandra ordered, sitting up. Her coiled braid was loose after sleeping, short hair messy, half sticking upward and the other half to her scalp. She yawned, stretching with a few clicks of her shoulders and wrists. "Why are you wet? Is there a hole in the tent?"

"Oh no, I went for a walk." she wasn't lying exactly, but she didn't say the whole truth. To say this to someone who was named as a Seeker of Truth at one point, perhaps this was a bad idea. "I'm used to waking early, among the Dalish, every second of a day was used to forage and hunt, to deal with life in general."

Cassandra pursed her lips. "So be it. Then change your robes. You'll catch chill, a snotty Herald will do us no favours."

The Dalish elf chuckled, it was so normal, the warrior cared in her own way. "I shall."

As they ate breakfast, a terse and comfortable silence between some people, except for Varric. The dwarf loved to talk, and was animatedly telling Scout Harding of a bar fight in a tavern which had broken his nose into the shape it was now.

 _'That was entertaining this morning. I thought you looked fetching with so much blood on your face.'_ Calathea shivered, hurriedly muttering under her breath a mantra of light, trying to gather her wits into something other than storms.

It was sunshine breaking through dark rain clouds that inspired the hope that bloomed in her mind. Just a break in them that revealed stark white sky, but it was enough for that moment. The Mysterious He, as she had started to call the demon, scowled, imprinting a face that was gone in seconds.

She would have sworn blind it was elven, not marked with vallaslin. But it was gone, like a whisper and a memory from hundreds of years ago. The Dalish mage glanced over at Solas, and the way he'd frozen in his seat, he looked over at her, his face turned down in sorrow.

Calathea forced herself into the mundane, the practical, helping pack away their encampment, trying to calm her horse even though her mind was tumultuous at best.

And there had been so much blood. She hated him for it, hated the Keeper for being so weak, hated him as much as she'd loved her father-figure.

A squall broke the monotony of their riding, the idle chatter, the inner thoughts, reining her mind into her head. She looked up, a dark bird swooping fast at them through sleeting rain. Cassandra smiled briefly, holding her arm up as the raven landed on it. She held her arm like a perch, dropping the reins of her horse.

"Leliana and her birds. We have orders, from the seal." the Seeker removed a leather tube from around its' feet, she let the raven hop onto the bridle of her horse, letting it have a preen. She broke the wax seal which kept inside the tube, a rolled vellum. She hmm'ed as she read. "There is a Chantry Mother, name of Giselle, at a small settlement called 'The Crossroads' south of Redcliffe Village. Apparently, our spymaster believes she will not just support us, but she also has contacts and secrets that will hush Chantry dissent before it even begins." the Seeker smirked.

"So we speak to her?" Calathea asked.

"We more than speak, O Glowing One." Varric grinned. "Call it underhanded, but we're helping her diocese, the people she cares about. The Mage-Templar war hit here hard, and refugees stream through the Hinterlands. We help her, she helps us."

"But we will be helping them regardless, no?" the Dalish elf furrowed her brows.

The dwarf nodded. "Yes, but more incentive is always a good thing. People flock to our banner, Mother Giselle flocks, her flock flocks, so to speak."

"That's an awful lot of flocking, Varric. I thought you were good with words?" Cassandra snidely put it. The dwarf feigned shock.

"Madam, you wound me with such hurtful words, I shall have to throw myself into conniption fits in an attempt to void those nasty humours you've caused!" the Seeker shook her head, muttering about suave, silver-tongued, roguish, and severely-lucky dwarves. Varric just carried on until Cassandra screamed in frustration.

Normalcy, it let her ignore the Mysterious He. At least for a while.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer:** Dragon Age is still the intellectual property of BioWare and EA.

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**Chapter Eight**

By the time they reached the flatter plains, sloping turf sea hills, and sparse, autumnal trees that shed damp, burnt orange leaves, they had started to run low on certain supplies. It was mainly Varric and his skill as a marksman which could shoot down fat geese that fed them the previous night, served with a foraged sour backberries in a little wine. Altogether, a rather good meal.

The Inquisition scouts they had, couldn't be short-rationed though. They needed food that stuck to their ribs, hearty and whole.

Cassandra, Varric, Solas, and Calathea might have been the face, the agents of the budding Inquisition, but they were nothing without their forces. "Scout Harding, there is a small valley to the east, is there not, that is not land of any lord, and therefore hunting is not poaching?" Cassandra voiced aloud over the morning campfire, handing her wooden bowl to the man on washing up duty. At least they still had oats for porridge, the warm, salted breakfast often helped them push forward in the morning. But porridge for two meals a day was disheartening.

The dwarf, dark ginger hair bound softly at the nape of her neck, looked up from her despondent prodding of rapidly cooling porridge. "I think so, but with all the refugees you can bet it's littered with rubbish." it was worse in a lot of ways, to see the cheery dwarven woman in such a morose mood. Food was a powerful tool, with it, one could starve an enemy out, or save a man's life. "The animals would have gone long ago."

"They might not. Animals and plants know to repair the land quickly lest it become barren." Calathea piped up, she set the honey infused hot water down on her knees. He hadn't put her gloves on yet, having been careful with her magic, trying to control it.

She leaned down, touching a finger into the leafy sod. Around her hand, shoots burst upward, clumps of dirt on a vine which twined with another, twisting into a dark, bark covered trunk, dark green leaves drooped from stray, winding vines. She sighed, feeling euphoric at the feeling. It felt so good to let the magic discharge, to let things regrow. Scout Harding watched it in wonderment, her eyes darting at the glimmers of magic which dripped off the leaves. "Paragon's beard, Herald." she breathed. "How'd you do that?"

"In truth, the magic is ancient. But it works with the land, my Keeper said it was the balance of life and death. The soil is the litter of hundreds of lives, broken into pieces that mulch together, and in such death, seeds reside, plants grow. Animals fertilise the soil. The cycle is endless, and I... balance that, the soil awakens, forcing life into the sleeping seeds, letting the life it once held lead to new life." she breathed softly, the hot pulse of magic running in her veins. Calathea glanced at the shocked faces, all their forces had watched her, enraptured, hanging on her words like their Chant of Light. Even Varric was silent.

They may have been listening, but they hadn't been looking at her. She followed their gaze at the vines that had formed a small tree in height, leaf covered... and bearing both flowers and fruit? Calathea snatched one of the small, orange bulbs. It squished under her fingers, smooth and cold.

Elsewhere in the vines, thin but thick together, purple and white flowers burst like stars with too many spires, stamen swaying in the morning breeze. "Passiflora?" she huffed slowly, breaking it with her thumbnails, red fruit inside like blood clots sat in white frothy inside of the fruit's thick skin. Carefully, she scooped them up, hoping the fruit wouldn't continue to grow from the seeds inside. The red stained her fingers before she put the fruit in her mouth. It was! She swallowed roughly. "Mythal'enaste!"

In awe, Scout Harding reached out, copying the action of breaking the pale orange skin and scooping out the blood-clot fruit inside. The dwarf gasped. "I... it's real!"

"Andraste's tits." Varric breathed. "My fine glowing elf, you're going to be awfully popular around here, the Blight made a lot of ground suitable for shit all other than dumping."

Cassandra watched her cautiously. "Nevertheless, if we make camp and scout the lord-less lands for some quarry, we might find it useful." but other than by Calathea, the Seeker went ignored for the most part. With a reverence, they approached the magically grown vines, sharing what grew on it between them like a gift of a God.

It took some time, but the commotion died down. They decided to keep camp near the magic passiflora vine, with half the forces scouting the land to the east in regards to hunting. Cassandra was pleased to hear that there was a small herd of wild Manx Loaghtyn sheep, enough to feed a good number if they made a small smoking hut and purchased some salt to preserve the meat. Yes, they'd feed Haven for a month or two meat-wise if they were careful. The Seeker set the scouts back out with hundred-pound bows and long spears with rope to carry their hunt back.

"Now we're away from prying eyes and ears..." Cassandra trailed off, passing Calathea the doeskin shoes that had somehow gotten under her cot. The Dalish elf had been waiting for this talking to, it was worse than Istimaethoriel. "Did you control that?"

She didn't answer for a while, pinning the brass stags tight. "Yes... and no. I wanted to grow something, I felt it bursting beneath my fingertips. It was... right. But no, I hadn't an idea it would grow so fast, so much, nor what it would be."

Hopefully the truth would supplicate her. The Seeker hmm'ed carefully. "They believe you are the Herald of Andraste more than ever now. You realise this?"

"I do. Their... fervour is chilling. I need not hear the words pass their lips to feel the intensity of their trust in a Dalish apostate grow." she sighed, the truth running out of her mouth faster and faster. "It is a trust I would never have expected, not even among my clan."

"Then let me tell you this now. If you let these men and women down, after we've closed the Breach I will hound you until your dying day. You can see it - they want you to be their saviour, they want miracles." the warrior woman leveled her with hazel eyes, as if trying to stare at her soul. Calathea gulped.

"Understood, Cassandra." she grit back. "I'm not an agent of Andraste, I'm just... me, but I'll be the best I can be."

"That's all they'll need." she stepped back, rubbing the back of her neck. The warrior fidgeted nervously, sucking her bottom lip in as her eyes wandered the bedroll on her cot. "I need to believe this. Just as much as them."

"I know." Calathea whispered, she shrugged the knapsack onto her back that contained First's book, flasks full of freshly made regenerative potions and elfroot concoctions, bandages, salve, and an ball of twine. There was always a use for a good ball of twine. The mage picked up the crude staff she'd been requisitioned, not attuned to fire like the one she'd had to use in the attempt to close the Breach, but more lightning focused. It still felt imperfect, not right with her magical energy.

There needed to be a way of having a staff made that was right. The were silent leaving the tent. Solas was ready, as was Varric, talking about the 'Champion's Tale' amicably. The men fell behind them, still talking.

"I find it difficult to believe four men went into an old mining shaft, killed twenty dragonlings, then slew a High Dragon." the elf spoke incredulously. "The dangers alone-"

"That why Blondie was worth his weight in gold, for all his faults he was a healer who could fix you up in battle then freeze a man solid in a heartbeat. Then there was Fenris, that elf was a menace with Gareth. They'd stand side by side like whirlwinds. Ah, shit. You're making me nostalgic." the dwarf chuckled slowly. "Truth is, there was only about three dragonlings, the mines aren't a dragon's best friend what with coal and dust. Then the High Dragon might have... lost a wing. Don't know how, but it wasn't the sturdiest of dragons when we came blade to snout as it were."

"Still, a remarkable feat." Solas remarked.

"Ah, of course. So, read after that bit?"

"Where Hawke and Isabela-" he coughed. "your prose is rather purple there no? How would you know the, ah, ins and outs?" there was a choked laugh from the dwarf, and Cassandra was blushing at her side. Calathea edged closer to the warrior.

"What are they talking about?" she whispered.

"In Varric's tale there's some risque scenes. Something akin to 'her bosom was unleashed like a stampede of wild horses' I can assure you though, it's more... ridiculous than lewd." she scowled at the word 'ridiculous' as if the word itself offended her. It wasn't a secret due to their sharing a tent that Calathea was reading slowly through the book in question.

"Oh." Calathea shuffled back into their walking formation. That did sound rather silly. Poetic, but silly. If someone's bosom was like horses they'd run in all sorts of directions. Varric would know that though, so it was done on purpose.

She strained her hearing in the unspoken words, hearing... battle? Fires burning, swords clashing... "Tell me I truly hear that." she said aloud. They stopped, listening to the wind. Cassandra took a deep breath in, pulling her sword from scabbard on her hip, shield taken off her back with practised ease.

"It is in the direction of the Crossroads." the warrior growled. They all spurred into action, running down the verge along the muddy trail, tearing grass beneath booted feet. The village itself stretched ahead of them, two cobble covered lanes that crossed in the middle.

Magical fire heated the air, energy building up in the Veil, it sizzled over makeshift barricades on one side of the wide lane. On the other side, it was a vacuum of energy, a void in which magic was drawn. She saw it gleaming like dew on a spiderweb, slipping faster and faster toward the templars, still building into a magical crescendo around the four mages there. The mages felled the last of the templars that were close to them.

Beside the actual fighting, civilians were screaming, a woman wept over a young boy, holding his head in her lap amongst the chaos.

The ire filled her, righteous anger. "Hold the fighting!" she screamed. It resounded on the Veil, shaking the fabric of it. "Can you not see what you do?"

The sheer feeling behind her words, the way they shook the Veil must have given them pause. There was a sucking, gurgling as the magical energy floundered in the air, drawing fast over at the templars in a rush of hot wind. Templar and mage alike looked up, as if noticing each other for the first time.

The Dalish mage cleared her throat again, having caught their attention. She truly felt all their eyes upon her, felt the straining Veil. "You murder and hurt not just your enemy, but those bystanders whose village you turn into a battlefield! And who is your enemy but another man? Bound by circumstance and stars to be a mage, or become a templar because there was no other home but a Chantry cloister! How-"

Her rant was cut as an arrow sailed through the air, neatly and powerfully felling a tall mage in bloody yellow robes. There was an immediate response, fire and ice as vengeance.

It was too much. The air shook at the battering. The templars reinforced their aura of nullifying magical energy, charging at the mages. There had been only four mages, compared to a good ten or twelve templars. Three now one had been killed. Arrows rained down from their high vantage points.

Calathea was tugged back into the gap between two wattle and daub houses, heart pounding madly in her chest. "A good speech. If there's any survivors, we might have some allies." Cassandra huffed. "But this is not a place for words, not even from an unannounced Herald."

The Dalish elf still prickled at being called the Herald of Andraste, but she had to make do with the paths it opened for her. "Varric, take out the archers up in the thatch. Solas, with me, we will push the templar forces back."

"And I shall use the Keeper magic to push back the small band of mages?" Calathea asked. Cassandra nodded approvingly, darting out of cover with Solas, Varric taking cover as he started to aim his crossbow.

The First discarded her gloves in their sheltered alcove, feeling magical energy surrounding her, filling her blood, it parted like waves with her anger, her Keeper magic running in sharp circuits through the requisitioned staff.

The mages saw her coming, but their spells were aimed at the templars. Likely they could feel her magic as keenly as should could theirs, they saw her as ally. There was a resounding crack-boom of Bianca, and splintering metallic sound, the magical balance restored around the nullifying templars.

As one drew a dagger from his belt holding it menacingly over his palm, she acted. Discharging everything she could, all the waves of uncontrollable energy that broiled in rolling bubbles, that nebulous cloud of lightning, the balance of life and death that awoke the soil - she thrust the staff down. Lightning and branches burst from the ground at their feet, curving at her will, forcing their arms apart like stocks, making them motionless. The three tried to struggle, but the soft branches gripped tighter on their legs, growing and arching to keep their arms apart.

They glared angrily, gnashing their teeth. "Let us go! We're just defending ourselves!" one shouted.

There was a cheer from somewhere nearby, and clapping. Cassandra and Solas had brought the templars down to a number of two, both surrendering with their hands up, weapons dropped. Cassandra was panting heavily, her tabard of a stark white eye stained with blood, sword wet with it. Solas flicked his staff back, an odd habit she noticed in him, before holding it like an innocent stick for hiking. Varric was whistling holding his crossbow on his shoulder in what could only be described as a heroic pose. The sort of pose one would make into a statue.

"This one." Calathea declared as she let her magic fade away, lifting her staff so she wasn't in any contact with the ground with her magic. "None of you listened to the call for truce, and this one was about to rend his soul with a demon! If he hasn't already."

The central mage whispered something incredibly racist, but she ignored the slur. One of the clapping women stepped forward. Her skin was dusky, and she wore off-white robes striped with gold and red, a triangular point to her hood that made her already dark face get bathed in shadow. "Has it finally stopped?" she asked, looking pitifully at the templars which hadn't surrendered. They didn't move.

"It has... for the moment." Cassandra breathed heavily.

Calathea straightened out. "We are agents of the newborn Inquisition, to deal with the Breach in the sky and the effects of the Mage-Templar war. We seek a Mother Giselle."

"That would be me." the woman who had approached them said softly. "And what will you do with your surrendered foes?"

"They will either join the Inquisition, under strict guidelines against violence to their opposite faction, or to use blood magic. There they can put serviceable skills to use in creating peace. Or they are sentenced to death for the chaos and deaths they have already sown in war." she glared at the mages, still in her vines and struggling. Two men and one woman. "Except this man. He will be executed. We cannot trust him."

He whimpered, shouting until Varric was merciful enough to do the job quickly, Bianca booming with a bolt and clacking as her limbs were retracted back. The possible blood mage sagged in the vines. The Chantry Mother, Giselle muttered a prayer for him.

But they were surrounded by the people who lived in this small place. "And the rest of you? Will you accept that men once your enemy are just that, being men as you are?" Cassandra reiterated from the heartfelt call to stop fighting.

The templars both took their helmets off, holding them under their arms as they knelt, putting an arm over their chest. "For our lives, we would stop this war." one spoke.

The second nodded solemnly. "It's good to be seen as men, not just swords."

Calathea turned sharply back at her mages, grimacing slightly at the sight of one still standing with an crossbow bolt in his head. "And you both? The Inquisition welcomes mages when we do not turn to foul means of power."

"If... if we could see to Olliver." the female mage of the duo left sniffed. "Yes. We will. You could have killed us."

"I..." the man sighed. "What choice do we have? Alright."

"Bring them all into the Chantry, we can speak in there and you may all clean up. Master Tanner, have these poor souls gathered up and taken into the chapel to be laid out for cremation." Mother Giselle was careful in her orders, softly spoken but firm. One of the villagers nodded, getting to work with a man very similar in looks to move the dead. "I received a raven from a certain Sister Nightingale, I assume she brings your word, agents of the Inquisition?"

 


	10. Chapter Nine

**Disclaimer:** Dragon Age is still owned by BioWare and EA.

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**Chapter Nine**

Thankfully, it was just Cassandra who needed to clean up, compared to the non-human agents of the Inquisition. Else they'd have been sitting in Mother Giselle's study in a borrowed Chantry robe of red and white. The fact of the matter was, Solas and Varric were escorting their new two mages and two templars to their scouting forces back at camp.

Incense and tallow-fat from hundreds of candles made the air warm and smoky, soft light from outside filtering through rich stained glass in depictions of a serene woman holding a sword or a bowl. Calathea had looked at each, astounded by the beauty of it, the artistic talent in the glass.

For all her Andrastian beliefs, and having served the Chantry for so long, Cassandra looked ill at ease without her proper armour on. A Chanter was seeing to cleaning it up for her though. She sat awkwardly at the study desk, watching the mage 'Herald' in her charge.

As for the Herald, Calathea was marveling at the books now. There were so many, polished leather painted with golden letters, varying shades of brown that caught the edge of the weak sunlight though the stained-glass window. Even in the Chantry at Haven, there were not this many books, and those the Inquisition had at their disposal were well worn tomes, leafed through many times. The Dalish scarcely had enough books to fill one of these shelves in these bookcases.

Carefully, she pulled one out by the spine, letting the heavy book fall open with a gentle thump. She pursed her lips, tongue pressing hard against her teeth as she squinted at the letters across the page, piecing them together into words and then sentences. "This is, a book on a man called Garren, and a woman by the name of Lady Talia Lyonne - they seem to be bonded? Are these people the Inquisition will need to speak to at some point?"

Cassandra laughed weakly, shaking her head. "No, it's just a story. Did the Dalish not have stories?"

"Not often written. Most of our stories were told by our Hahren, passed down through generations." Calathea frowned, Felgan, oh she would somehow have to get word to her clan on his death. "I have a few short ones, and some poems in my own book, but with vellum so scarce among the People, it's mainly used for practical use. Potion recipes and the such, rituals, things we must remember lest we not be Dalish." she sighed, closing the book in her hand with a snap of the crisp pages. No book she'd ever seen had pages this clean, and the words were even, all in the same shaped letters, no smudges from inky fingers. "So this book, have you read it?"

"The Rose of Orlais is a personal favourite, I suggest you give it a read in your spare time." both the women startled slightly, whipping their heads to the Chantry Mother. Cassandra bowed her head in respect, and the Dalish elf was quick to copy. Rudeness wasn't needed. "Please, you are my guests here. What can I do for you, ladies?"

Cassandra answered for her. "As you know now, the Inquisition of old has been reformed in the wake of our Most Holy Divine Justinia V's death, to stop the Breach in the sky from threatening Thedas, close it, and to cease the deaths to the Mage-Templar war."

"Lofty goals." Mother Giselle smiled as warmly as her candles. "None less difficult than they sound."

"Indeed." Cassandra nodded.

"And you must be the one known as the Herald of Andraste?" the Chantry Mother poured her attention solely at the Dalish elf, gentle smile and dark eyes watching every facet of her at once, looking through her as much as at her. "Sister Nightingale did say that the Herald was Dalish, and would Andraste have chosen any other, as she had Shartan the elf at her side as advisor in war?"

"I am sure many of your fellow Chantry Mothers would say quite the opposite." she responded tactfully, feeling a weight of guilt on her for holding the book still and of course, parading as a Herald to a God she did not follow.

"They would," she nodded sadly, sighing. "And what would you say to them? It is obvious to even me that you carry yourself even higher than a noble, your words shake hatred enough to halt bitter enemies, and you truly saw the pain they caused, not just the war."

And all that was true. It  _had_ been her words which even momentarily forced a halt to the fighting, she  _had_ seen the people affected by this fight besides the mages and templars. It may have been a skirmish in comparison to the battles held over Thedas even now, but she had stopped them with words, she had spared and put to use those who surrendered, and she had held onto her rule on blood magic, swiftly proving justice in the Inquisition. Varric had delivered the execution, but Calathea had ordered it.

Just realising the sheer power she'd held, even without the mark on her hand which closed rifts. "I was delivered from the Fade out of the explosion that killed the Divine, and all who saw it, even myself, saw a woman of golden light see me back to Thedas. Who she was, even I do not know, but I awoke with the singular ability to close the rifts which let demons into the world. So whatever I am, I am here, and I am useful."

Cassandra had been rigid throughout the speech, and Mother Giselle watching with a strange, patient look that was reminiscent of Keeper Soralan. "What do you believe then? You do not know, but your belief?" _  
_

The short-haired warrior sucked in a quick gasp that threatened to come out. It was not in Calathea to falter even under this Mother Giselle's gaze. "I believe I am useful, I believe in what goals our Inquisition has. I believe the people of your diocese need help, and the Inquisition, to lessen the burden of a war that we are to stop, will help."

The tension lessened considerably. Cassandra's eyes shone with pride, a smile spreading on her lips that said she'd made a decision that worked well. Likely not to kill Calathea, but still pride. Mother Giselle seemed to understand fully, not pushing the matter of theology further. "That is a kind thing, and the right thing to do. I can have a list of needs of the refugees here made up."

"That would be most useful, and any sightings of Fade rifts? We have seen a few, and closed them on our route from Haven to this place." Cassandra took the lead again, and Calathea was grateful without the senior woman looking both at and through her.

"There were many, and what militia we have, have been trying to keep the demons at bay. When the Breach stopped growing in the sky, many rifts closed." the Chantry Mother sat down in the comfortable seat by a small table, picking up a quill and roll of vellum there. She depressed a button in the table, revealing an inkwell set in the wood, and dabbed it in there. The ink smudged on her fingers, bleeding under her nails as she wrote. "And the refugees have strained our stores. We lack good meat, and blankets. But with the fields, at least we do not lack for beans and grain. With the coming winter, the cold will kill as surely as starvation, a man cannot live on grain and beans." she dabbed her quill repeatedly, listing the needs in neat script. "If possible, someone with good knowledge of healing herbs and cures will be invaluable; we do try here, but the Chantry is stretched thin with all the villages and farmsteads scattered in the hills."

"I have recipes, passed among the Dalish for more lives than we have memory of. If you have the people with skill, and the ingredients, they should not faze even an inept alchemist." Calathea offered. It was a long list, and each item was vital. Food and heat. If they hunted well enough, not just these wild sheep, but geese and pheasant, then they would feed a good amount of people. Stationed some of their scouts to help provide strong bows for additional hunting, a presence of the Inquisition. With the sheep, they could have the people here weave wool from their fleeces, make blankets and such to keep everyone warm.

She shared these ideas that formed in her mind with Cassandra and Mother Giselle, approval and added ideas thrown back at her. "There are plenty of good women and men here who can weave, yes, they would work for the good of their fellow man." Mother Giselle smiled. "And down from the birds would provide warm blankets too, encased in cotton."

"We could press our templars and mages that fought here to work with and for the people they harassed." Cassandra nodded. "When we return to camp, those scouts who stay here will police them."

"The mages might also know of any encampments in caves with their fellows. If the fighting starts anew... they would also have supplies, food and blankets in the least which could be used now." the Chantry Mother added.

"Then we can do this. I shall let you have use of my book, I trust you will care for it as I am caring for your people, Mother Giselle." Calathea reached into her knapsack, lifting the thick, old book from inside. Mother Giselle took it carefully, holding it in her dark, work-worn hands as any of the polished leather ones on her shelf. She paused, hoping the timing was right. "Mother Giselle, did our Sister Nightingale inform you that your connections with your fellow Mothers might be influential for the Inquisition? That we could use your help as you can use ours?"

There was a pregnant pause, and a happy snort of soft air from the Mother. "Yes, she did ask that the last writ from our Most Holy was upheld. I will come with you to your base of operations at Haven once my people are back in relative safety. I could never expect them safe from all the Maker planned, but cruel men and rifts are things we can solve before the Maker need intervene. And of course, the Inquisition can be the answered prayers of all of us for deliverance, how could we turn down the hand the Maker uses."

Cassandra was delighted to see the Chanter, a man of thin, pocked skin stretched over frail bones, carrying her armour and freshly cleaned tabard. Mother Giselle excused them, and Calathea waited outside the Chantry for Solas and Varric to return.

There was much to do, but it was possible. To these people here at the Crossroads, magic had brought them nothing but death and fear, but magic brought them help too. They looked at her with both fear, knowing what she was, and hope, having heard the rumours of what it was claimed she was. And they had seen her, standing amid the fighting and successfully demanding truce, even for a short while.

Instinctively, perhaps as a habit as much as coping mechanism, her mind wandered out of the confines of her mind. So much information had been absorbed lately, how to deal with her demon, how to speak effectively to those of the Chantry, words she'd never used before that would become as common as Hahren or Keeper to her. It was good to feel the weak midday sun, autumnal breeze on the air. It shook through the fatigue in her mind.

Calathea drifted on that breeze, watching the milling and working of men and women who only wanted normalcy, who did not need trouble at their doors. Like the Dalish, they knew no other life, their roles to help the rest of their village were as key as any hunter, any craftsman. She saw a man leading a gaggle of children, he wore the Chantry robes of red and white, no gold, marking him as lower in their echelons. She saw the similarities as he stopped to point out something interesting, his arms flailing animatedly and children giggling at the end of the tale, following him again. He was their Hahren then.

Humans were not so different, stuck in their ways, leaning on each other. Their methods weren't so different.

Arlathan and Halamshiral had been a long time ago. The Dalish First found herself without enough energy to feel angry for their loss. Sad perhaps, wishing to have known of what had been, but they still lived, they could still forge a new place for them. They just needed to find a place for themselves in a human driven world.

They needed to accept all elves, no matter their stars and luck in birth. She felt the truth of it in her bones, as intense as the magic that flowed in her soul. She snapped back into her mind as she saw the two figures of Varric and Solas returning to the village, picking up her requisitioned staff from leaning against the Chantry, walking slowly to greet them. "We have our Chantry Mother, and a list of tasks and solutions that will help the refugees here." she announced as greeting.

"If you want something done, send the glowing elf. It'll become a phrase." Varric greeted her back, a roguish, lopsided smile filling his scruffy features. "And look, our Seeker." she turned, following his line of sight. Cassandra strode from the Chantry and down the stone steps, her tabard was stained, the white eye now a murky, pale brown because of the blood. But it was clean and dry now, the Chanter had been quick.

"I'm glad that is over." she sighed. "Calathea, I will admit now, I underestimated you greatly. Do not prove my old evaluation correct."

Of course, it would be this way. It was endearing, in an odd way, to see her trying not to care when the Seeker cared such a great deal. It was like she was afraid of showing anything soft about her, making the woman all angles. "Did you bring directions to the rifts the people here know of?"

Cassandra was better at ease, holding the vellum in her hand and stretching it open to read. "The Old MacGuire farm, close to their barn. By a stream that feeds the lower lord-less fields to the west of our encampment. Thank the Maker it was not to the east. Then there is one by a ruined bridge, where the river dried up over two-hundred years past. That is farthest from here, and then on the lane toward Redcliffe." she shook her shoulders out. "At your direction, Herald."

Calathea pursed her lips. "We do it in the Order Mother Giselle listed them, then send the militia back to the village to help and more refugees."

Their shieldmaiden was a fine reader of direction and maps, defining a simple path between the sighted rifts that would be easy to follow and not over straining over hills and other natural blockades. Calathea held back as they walked, falling into pace beside Solas.

"You need not ignore me." she said softly. It still hurt, seeing her own lowest moment again, this time with wounded eyes and having a relative stranger judge silently. It still hurt so much. But the past cannot be undone, the Keeper would not come back, and Solas would not unsee that moment she'd killed the Keeper. "I... I am sorry for saying you stole-"

She was cut off by his sigh. "Don't. I should have checked first. Perhaps we should speak of this later, when we've dealt with the rifts."

Calathea nodded. "Ma nuvenin. And, thank you."

"I shall have to ask why, later." Solas' tone was amused and she smiled to herself.

It was bad enough to have her clan worrying for her, for fearing what she could do because of what she had done. She didn't want these people she was beside now, this Inquisition, to feel the same.

And there would be more of them. Even with so little done so far, it felt very certain.

_'Pride is a downfall, how far will you fall my foolish girl?'_  the Mysterious He said. She grit her teeth, trying to ignore the damned voice. It was too slippery, like oil on a silken rag. She breathed slowly, tingling with light inside until the presence that feared and wanted to take her mind backed away.

 


	11. Chapter Ten

**Disclaimer:** No changes, BioWare and EA didn't accept my love as currency in exchange for the rights to Dragon Age. *sighs*

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**Chapter Ten**

There hadn't been four rifts. There had been five.

The first was small, with shades that harassed the goats and cows on the farm, scaring chickens. The farmer MacGuire had been very thankful, giving them a couple of bottles of his homemade scrumpy. Without the option to refuse, they'd accepted the gift.

Calathea hadn't been tired out yet, the rift had burned her hand slightly, like a campfire she'd huddled too close to. They trudged along to the next location Mother Giselle had told them a rift was.

The second was squat between a ditch and a stream, sylvan-like demons of Terror staking about in the soft mud. They turned the mud they walked black and liquid, bubbling angrily, green fires trailing after them. Solas was quick to char them where they stood, and Varric pushed them back with powerful shots from Bianca as Calathea poised herself on moss covered stones in the stream, her hand held above her and nerves lit full of pain as it closed.

The Fade emptied her of energy, and they had needed to stop for a moment so she could recover. They couldn't afford for her to fall like she'd done after attempting to close the Breach. Luckily, as they'd returned to camp for the rest, one of the apostates they'd spared had a couple of lyrium potions.

They were bitter, and the magically rejuvenating mineral had separated slightly, sinking to the bottom in a sludge. Thankfully though, they'd helped. They continued on.

The one over the ruined bridge was easier with the aid of the lyrium that was humming in her blood, calling to the Fade and pushing back against the rift as much as she felt pulled by it. Shades had been more powerful there, feeding off long forgotten people who'd jumped from the bridge when the river once ran beneath. Wisps of spirits pressed on the Veil, shadows of those desperate lives flickering against her eyelids when she blinked. It left a bad taste in her mouth, the Dalish elf was thankful to be rid of the place.

They sent the militia back to The Crossroads, to help bolster the Inquisition forces. Most pledged themselves into service of the reformed order, swearing that having seen the chaos spurred them to help. It was needed, and Cassandra was quick to get their names written down for pay.

Which made for an interesting conversation on route to the Redcliffe Road, apparently they were all going to get paid, when of course, they started making some coin. Despite herself, Calathea could feel a better staff in her hands already, and maybe, robes actually made for her.

That was when they sighted the rift behind a waterfall, in a shallow cave. It was a bitter fight.

Calathea screamed as the blade cut deep on her calf, spitting elvish as she lashed out with violent lightning. Apostates had been fueling the rift, bringing demons though faster, binding them.

She was soaked through by the waterfall, and furious, hot blood pumped thickly down her tights, filling her damp shoe. "Duck, Glowy!" she only just managed to crouch, groaning at the way her calf muscle flexed. Bianca went off with an unhealthy creaking, the bolt crunched bone as it went clean through the apostate's head. Calathea winced, unsteadily throwing her hand up with palm outstretched.

The pain was excruciating, the blood magic had fed this rift, and it felt as if her nerves were stripped bare, dragging her very self out through the mark that crackled and spluttered. Her eyes watered, and she forced her arm upright despite the way her muscles twitched with dying nerves.

As it closed, it felt like smoke. Nothing but the soft caress of smoke filling her lungs, the choking, burning, but gentle touch flowing through her throat. It constricted tight, and her eyes were streaming.

The air cleared, pulling the smoke away, giving her a fresh gulp of breath that felt utterly bereft of magic. Cassandra stood over her, stern face half covered in blood that wasn't her own. Her hands glowed a silver light hat faded as the magic surrounded them. "Seeker?" Calathea gasped.

Cassandra offered a hand up. "A very basic templar technique from my days as a Seeker," the warrior explained, breathless from the fight. "I had to banish the demon, it slipped out of the rift at the last moment. You were strong enough to resist at least." Calathea daren't have said at that moment of the Mysterious He that had laid claim to her soul, there had been no fighting whatsoever because of how it tried to force itself into her very being.

The other woman's hand sent shocks though her arm, not painful, but draining. To be honest, her leg hurt more. The elf fell back down, hissing between her teeth. She ripped a strip of her robes off the hem. She used a small vial of elfroot infusion from her knapsack, pouring it over the gristly cut to stem the bleeding a bit.

Varric sucked in a breath through his back teeth. "Ouch, Bianca didn't do that, did she?"

"No, that seth'lin that Bianca ended did it." the Dalish elf gasped as Solas bent down at her leg, and a darkened gauzy poultice in hand. It stung against the cut and she just passed the strip of robe wordlessly, biting down into her knuckle as he tied it tightly. "Elgan'nan, Solas! Are you trying to amputate my foot?"

He knotted it with a tug that had her hissing between her gritted teeth. "I can stitch it when we return to camp." he said calmly. She carefully stood, leg feeling tight but numb where the poultice touched the cut. It worked, but it wasn't the kindest way of healing. It would scar, that much was certain.

"Come, we need to close the other rift. Who knows what forces could be making it worse?" Using her stave, she held it like a walking stick, trying not to slip on the slick stones. She felt like a drowned rat by the time she was back in the sunshine though.

Argh. She sopped and limped, trying to keep moving. The breeze was cool, chilling her. "I could do with a hot scrumpy when we get back to camp. I'll make it up if you lot are in?" Varric grimaced at his fine duster and shirt, both soaked through. "And if you're not, I'll drink yours."

Solas lost half his volume with his bilious robes stuck wetly to him, despite her pain, Calathea couldn't help but restrain a chortle. Cassandra, if anything, looked cleaner. "I needed a bath while wearing full armour."

Thankfully, the journey to the rift on the road to Redcliffe was uneventful, just very wet as they all dripped as they walked. It was slow, the feeling coming back in her left arm where her nerves had fried, but when it came back, it was splinters beneath her nails, needles pricking her skin. "Are you alright? You're looking awfully pale my glowy friend." Varric asked, his jovial face full of concern.

"Nothing I cannot handle." she smiled weakly. "I can handle it a bit longer for the promise of hot scrumpy."

"For you, I'll add my secret ingredient, just don't tell Bianca, she gets terribly jealous." he winked, grinning lopsidedly.

The last known rift, the fifth of the day for them, wasn't large, but a demon of Rage was terrorising the militia trying to combat and stop them spreading. "You! Are you apostates?" one of them shouted, noting their staves as such straight away.

"We're not here to fight you, we're outside the Mage-Templar war." Calathea put her hand with the mark up in surrender.

"I don't give a flying fuck!" the militia man huffed. His arm was burned, not badly, but still burned, and the smell of burnt flesh and grass alike wafted in the autumnal air. He wasn't the only person here burned by the fiery demon. It was not pleasant. "One of you freeze that bastard and we'll shatter him. Saw it back in the Blight when we defended Redcliffe, ain't going to turn down magical help right now."

"Solas, do you need my magical energy?" the Dalish elf asked, recalling the Rage Demon they'd faced in Haven. The fellow elf shook his head, shaking a lyrium vial between his fingers and gulping it back without even a moue of distaste. His stormy eyes were alive, the Veil even tasted sharp as she breathed in, magic filled the air. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

If she didn't believe the very same look of savageness overcame her when she drank lyrium, Calathea might have been worried. It was a familiar look on a mage as their magical energy was rejuvenated quickly.

As they'd idled, shades had slid slickly from the rift, giving the militia a bit more of difficulty. The agents of the Inquisition burst from cover, cutting down the demons quickly, magic humming deeply through the air. The rift wobbled, and taking a chance, the Dalish elf held out her arm.

It reacted like always, hurting her, fraying her nerves. It pulled at them anew, fingers flexing without her control like she was trying to grasp at it. She had to breathe heavily finally suturing it shut as a little more of her energy was siphoned away.

Tiredly, she dropped to her knees, calf still numb with the poultice. Her very bones felt weary. Varric rushed to her side, tucking his shoulder under her arm. "Up you get, can't have you just falling over now."

Calathea smiled. "No, I can't." but she felt barely lucid, as if she heard everyone talking from a great distance, or with her head underwater. The sky darkened as they walked, her propped up with Varric as the prop, someone much taller on her other side. She assumed Cassandra because something pointy dug into the softer flesh opposite her bicep.

The mage allowed herself to be guided, one foot falling ahead another faster than she wanted to go. There was a moment where she fell forward, and was turned, scratchy blankets on a cot enveloping around her still sopping form. he felt warm and heavy, needing sleep, desperately wishing to fall into the Fade.

It was sudden, waking up again, the tent was pitch black, and she was damp. The elf groaned softly, places aching that shouldn't be aching. The spell for magelight was the simplest, the first she'd ever accomplished, and how her magic had manifested. As simply as wishing, it hung above her shoulder, dimly so her eyes could adjust.

Her calf still felt numb, and she carefully peeled back a fresh bandage and poultice from the cut, shocked to see neat stitches lining her skin. Calathea replaced them, making sure it was tight as she got out of the cot, noticing that Cassandra wasn't in hers, and plodding out of the tent, uneven gait as she pushed through the flaps. She still felt groggy, but better, more awake.

"She's alive!" Scout Harding raised a glass, amber in the firelight and half-full of dark ale. Their camp was buzzing with life, the local militia and signed up young men and women who wanted to stop the present dangers in Thedas. They'd return to Haven and start training under Commander Cullen. Mother Giselle sat with a book, spectacles perched on her nose.

Most of the camp looked toward her, drunken smiles and respectful, misty eyes. "Glowy! I made sure the vultures left your scrumpy, you look in most need." Varric pat the seat next to him on the split log they were using like a bench. Her mouth was dry, and stomach pinched.

She sat down, the warmth of the campfire making her skin feel flush already. The Dalish elf let her magelight go away, taking the pewter tankard in cold hands as the dwarf ladled in warm scrumpy from the pan nestled in the crackling logs of the fire. She blew the top, sipping it and sighing at the warmth as it filled her, running down an abused throat and flooding her belly.

Calathea sagged, grateful. "Ma serannas, Varric." it was more than just hot in temperature, it was spiced, tickling her nose and heating her tongue long after the scrumpy was done.

Dinner was a rather good stew, carrots and cabbage with beans and nice, tender chunks of mutton. The scouts had obviously done well in their hunts. They ate slowly, drinking and chatting. The atmosphere was happier for sure, and they had done great good today, helped a lot of people and strengthened the position of the Inquisition.

She was enjoying a song that one of their new recruits had started up, a tavern song on a long necked lute, humming softly along with the lull of the scrumpy in her belly. "We are going to speak later? Do you feel up to it?"

Calathea startled, "Elgar'nan, you can be as silent as the Dread Wolf when you want to be! You need a bell 'round your neck." she hiccoughed at the end. "But yes, I feel... alright. I will be back soon, Varric."

The dwarf nodded, his attention focused on the woman singing, her voice was melodious. "Sure, Glowy. Have fun."

Solas chuckled under his breath as she extracted herself, stumbling with her bad leg before righting with arms splayed out. "Are you sure, it can wait I'm sure."

"No, no." she smiled weakly, the magelight naturally hovering over her shoulder as they slowly made their way into the darkness, just away from the camp. Not too far though, the night was a dangerous thing.

"So, you apologised and thanked me in all but one breath. When the fault was mine." Solas began.

Calathea shook her head, closing her eyes. "Yes. The apology was due. I can no more change my past than change the stars in the sky. You thought there might be a lesson for me in a thin area of the Veil, and you were willing to share something very special to you with someone else."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Well, anyone with eyes notices how you enjoy the Fade, Solas. That you speak of spirits as your friends reflects well, any mage versed in the Fade would know that demons and spirits are a mirror of your innermost self."

That got a happy laugh from him. "Don't judge me so quickly, I might have demons of my own."

"True, but it was still, thoughtful. And, the thanks was for that too, for being willing to share. So, I thought I might share something."

"I might have thought the memory in the Fade was more than enough-" Solas was cut off by her hand in the air. "Oh?"

"The truth behind that, why. My father died of water sickness before I was born, and my mother hours after my birth. But I do not say this for pity, I did not know them. Among the Dalish, they say that it is only great magic which can be borne from such tragedy, and so the Keeper and his bond-mate took me as their own. She still produced milk from their first-born, Felgan, the Hahren of our clan." she looked away for a moment, taking a long slow breath in. "Can we sit a moment?"

He helped her down onto the damp grasses, sitting beside her with legs crossed. "Go on."

She cleared her throat, the chill of the night sticking to her, the magelight casting stark shadows on them. "I was of course, a mage. And Felgan was not. The boy I counted as my brother and I fought for the affections of the Keeper, and I won. He bonded with the Keeper's First when he came of age, and I studied still under his father, seemingly untouchable, some passionate, brash Second that stole his father. Then..."

"Then your Keeper delved into Blood Magic." Solas sighed. "Not something that should be forbidden, but the use of it does attract demons moreso."

"I, I would have thought Keeper Soralan strong enough not to accept an offer. And as I said, the past cannot be changed any more than the stars. We can mourn the loss of Arlathan and Halamshiral, but we should focus on creating an elven empire anew before we lose good men and women chasing such knowledge... The clan hated me so much for killing the Keeper. I thought I should have been exiled from the People. But Felgan stood up for me, called me his sister by a bond thicker than blood, but love. I hadn't ever felt so happy and yet so terrible."

"I see. I... I imagine it brought up such memories." Solas frowned. "I am still sorry."

"I didn't come to the Conclave alone. Felgan came with me, leaving his bond mate, our Keeper, and his da'len. He was in the temple when I was, and only I survived. He looked so much like our Keeper. It didn't just bring up my estrangement from my clan. His loss is just too fresh to think of."

He didn't speak for a long time, as if mulling over the information, turning it over in his mind. Out of awkwardness, she felt her mind breaking at the confines of her mind, and it took everything to reel it inside, putting a mental lock on the door to the outside. "I understand." he finally spoke, looking down. The sorrow radiated from him, cold, black, sadness that delved into layers of unshed tears. It twanged through the Veil, where it glimmered silvery in the night.

"We should return, there was some cloudy pear wine left when I checked. We could share a bottle and mourn." he shook his head, pursing his lips.

"I will pass." Solas blinked, taking a deep breath. "Try not to notice changes in the emotional layer of the Veil, it disconcerts most. Just, try to look though your eyes, not through your mind."

"And how should I do that?" Calathea pouted, looking through her eyelashes. He chewed the inside of his lip thoughtfully.

"For our next lesson. You've been through enough for today, enjoy the celebrations while you can." he smiled lopsidedly, standing up and extending a hand.

"I've got it." She stood up slowly, shaking a bit on her bad leg but stable. "Did you stitch my cut?"

"Mother Giselle did, she thought it untoward as she needed to remove your tights to do so." she blushed, the magelight flickering above them. "Cassandra fussed over you like a mother hen, I would make sure she knows you're better."

They walked back in comfortable quiet, slightly wiser and both more confused, to the revels. A different, bawdier song filtered through the still air, Varric singing at the top of his lungs.

 


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Author note:** Warning, there's nudity in this chapter. There's been nudity by default before (waking up in Haven post-Breach close), but this is slightly more... purposeful nudity. Nothing sexual or even sensual about it. Do say if you think it should push the rating up though!

 **Disclaimer:** Still owned by BioWare and EA despite my biggest puppy eyes.

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**Chapter Eleven**

The equinox was a powerful time for magic, subtle magic which stirred the spirits of Thedas into a frenzy. Magic that belonged solely to the elves that remembered.

The spring equinox - in elvish, earraigh - was the time such spirits needed awakening. And each Dalish clan had a duty as deep as their lineage to do so. Each and every member, descended from Arlathan and the magical power from the past had such a duty.

They wore bright clothes, peacocks of the forests, strutting and hooting in charismatic dance. The spirits writhed around their lively dancing, invigorated for the year.

It was said that each clan represented a God of their pantheon, Forgotten Ones and Creators alike, and their rituals at any equinox were devoted to that God. When they woke the spirits, it was in the name of their patron. The truth of such was long gone, but they still believed it. There was as much power in belief as there was in truth.

But the autumn equinox - fhomhair - was a time of sleep. The spirits of Thedas needed to fall back during the winter, and the Dalish that had magic themselves, or who were privy to magic danced, not the entire clan. They paid the cost of spring for the People.

Their dance was naked, but no less fast paced.

It was the first year that Calathea had ever danced alone as the only true magic in the fhomhair ceilidh, the ritual dance of the Lavellan clan. Keeper Istimaethoriel had only given birth to her second da'len a week past, and they had no Second. It was just those of close magical blood that surrounded her.

By the crisp light of the moon through the blackened canopy leaves, they started. It was slow, feet falling clumsily in damp, grassy sod until the Veil started tugging at their bodies, invisible, ancient ties to the land of dreams and death which jerked them about.

No elf danced alike. Her heart sped up with the dancing, the innate music thrumming in the First's head as her heels dug in the ground and she pranced into the air. She felt alive, the magic sang in her, the Fade called. Calathea became part of the dance. The Veil moulded around her, drifted through her like water on glass.

Vallaslin, skin, and shadow melded, slipping beyond separation as they moved swifter, bodies and blood. The music called to them each, but it sang through the First, it responded to her magic like a lightning rod, delving inside and reacting.

She didn't breathe, she daren't, invoking the spirits to sleep, pushing against their resistant screaming, calling on all that was natural. Words that had lost all meaning but for pronunciation and rhythm slipped her lips, a shrill cry against the night.

And it called back.  _'I've found you.'_ But in the raw, fhomhair ceilidh, sharp winter drifting into the year, Calathea did not notice the extra chill of fear down her spine. It wasn't until later that it was apparent that something that hadn't even been awake before, had seen but a glimpse of the Dalish First.

And it thirsted.

Calathea awoke abruptly, breathing heavily. The tent swam for a moment in her vision, bleary before she blinked several times to clear the fog from her head. "I heard that mages had worse nightmares. I always wondered at the truth to that rumour." she glanced sideways, sighing.

"I wouldn't be able to compare." the air inside their shared tent was cool, enough that Cassandra sat in her cot in not only her tunic and breeches, but also with her blankets thrown over her shoulders. "Are you reading The Rose of Orlais?"

The warrior snapped the book on her lap shut, suddenly aware that she'd been caught with her hand in the sweetmeats pot as it were. It was the polished leather of the book Mother Giselle had lent them though, the clean pages and even print. "It is an instructional book on poise and etiquette in formal duels. I was comparing them to true battle."

"And that would be why you're blushing scarlet?" Calathea smiled brightly. She hadn't had a chance to read the borrowed book with her attention still on Varric's tale on Gareth Hawke, but stolen snippets of conversation between the roguish dwarf and the Chantry Mother had implied that the book was not standard for a woman of the cloth. It might have even been risque!

"I am not. Now get ready, we should arrive in Haven shortly. With the light we should be able to continue on the mountain path." Cassandra shuffled the book inside her knapsack, but it was undeniably the same book from the Crossroads Chantry. Calathea had just discovered something about the blunt Nevarran, and it was unlikely that she liked to share such knowledge.

Haven was filled so much more when they arrived, people moving in an unorganised, makeshift village almost. Humans, elves, even some dwarves, milled about, carrying something or working.

There were faces she vaguely recognised, the elven servant which had been there when she awoke after closing the Breach, the man which sourced the old quilted blankets for coats. But there were many more. "Where did these people come from?" she whispered in an aside to Scout Harding, whose horse was abreast with her own. The dwarf chuckled.

"From all over, Herald. People hear about what you did, they've heard about the Inquisition, what you've said you're going to do. These people want to help." the truth of her words was still a shock to the elf.

"Truly? They do not care for my heritage, my magic? They do not think I killed their Divine?" she breathed.

The ginger dwarf smiled. "Maybe that's why they're here, they think that Andraste might have chosen you because of these things. You're Her Herald to them, the one who brings Her blessing. Andraste freed the elves from Tevinter and your magic could just be another way to serve. I hear it from the boys, they all think it enough. And if they think you killed the Divine, they certainly think Andraste chose you to save them as penance."

"Mythal'enaste." Calathea hissed through her teeth. There were more people than she'd ever seen, farm animals in pens that hadn't been there before. A forge where a blacksmith was hammering away, more horses! Soldiers were training in an open arena, the clash of their swords ringing on armour.

Haven was full of sound, a bevy of canvas and huts like stationary, crude aravels lining the sides. They'd started to build houses, or at least somewhere to live.

The first people pledged to be agents of the Inquisition rode through the throngs, cheers and claps sometimes breaking out as they passed. Women muttered, crossing their arms on their shoulders, soldiers saluted. "I hope you're in the mood to wave, Glowy." Varric barked.

Calathea was honestly having a difficult enough time riding, let alone holding one arm up to wave. The crowds crept closer to the horses as they carried on through them, but the elf daren't have gotten off. Some had swiped their hands on her shoes staring at their palms after like they held some wondrous substance.

"Get back! Let the agents of the Inquisition through or we can't do as promised!" the voice of reason was the templar, Commander Cullen, the current leader of their forces. The people dissipated somewhat, saddened groans filling where excited chatter had once been. "I mean it! The Herald needs to come to the Chantry."

"I was sure the Chantry exploded. Or am I mistaken?" the elf asked in an aside to Varric, who had switched places with Scout Harding in the shuffling crowds.

"The Temple of the Sacred Ashes, which held the Ashes of Andraste Herself exploded. The Chantry is that building there. Not the most traditional mind you, but it serves its' purpose." Varric pursed his lips. "Might be part of the 'Herald' rumours."

She all but fell off the horse, still not used to the dismount. The ground was hard under her shoes, and crunchy with snow. "Commander Cullen, I am needed?"

The templar looked down on her, simply because of his height. The edge of his mouth curled up. "Yes, Herald. The Left Hand has someone for you to meet, and we have urgent matters to attend to."

"These couldn't be dealt with in our absence?" she questioned, as always, the horses were tended to by others. It was an odd experience, not having to do the small chores but just the larger ones, one she was still getting used to.

"These matters concern you personally, everything else is done. We've had troubling reports from the Free Marches and Val Royeaux, and the forest around the Breach - it's had more than strange affects on the land."

"Strange affects?" Cassandra voiced. "How so?"

Cullen looked toward the warrior. "You will recall the red lyrium around the Breach, it wasn't there before. Yet... the forest has changed it."

"Oh great." Varric groaned, cutting in.

"It's blue, it's much safer." Commander Cullen finished. "We're not sure, but the Breach has been more stable without so much red lyrium around it. Not all of it's gone, but, we believe that in time the forest will consume it all."

"I did that?" Calathea breathed. It was a revelation that her Keeper magic, even uncontrolled, had such power. "By the Creators, I... how is that even possible?"

"As I said, we don't know." Cullen answered sternly. The man in furred pauldrons and heavy armour pushed the heavy Chantry doors open, the rushing warm incense that was familiar of the Crossroads Chantry having filled the air. It was decked in red and golden banners, smoky light from soft candles filling the corners. Mother Giselle sighed happily.

"I shall have my effects put in the Revered Mother's quarters. I am available for anyone to talk to." she bowed to them, dismissing herself and walking in a direct path to what Calathea had discovered was an empty room before. She got lost in buildings and thought it where Cassandra was pouring over a map previously.

"I should go check some things. I'm sure you don't need me right now." Varric disappeared from their side. Calathea then noticed that all the scouts, including Harding, and Solas were gone too.

There was a commotion of sorts, coming from a side room. The elf and two warriors made a beeline for there, with Cassandra pushing the door open with a determined creak. Inside, was a woman in rich blue and gold, her dress was elegant, cut to mid calf and sleeves slightly puffy. She was currently arguing with a man in a mask, a mask with a moustache?

Calathea furrowed her brows at the oddness of the scene. "The Inquisition cannot remain here, Ambassador. You cannot prove that it was formed on our late Justinia's orders!" the masked man demanded of the woman. She raised a challenging dark brow, leaning back on the balls of her feet.

"This is an inopportune time to make such a request, Marquis. More of the faithful flock to Haven by the day." she paused, looking toward the opened door. The smile on her face was pleased. "But do allow me to introduce the brave soul who risked her very life to stem the magic of the Breach."

Calathea gulped as masked man, gold and blue woman, Cassandra, and Commander Cullen all turned their attention at her. Did humans have to be so tall? Actually, the masked Marquis was shorter than the rest of them, but still taller than her. "Mistress Lavellan, may I introduce the Marquis DuRellion, one of our Most Holy's greatest supporters?"

How the blue and gold woman knew her clan name, Creators knew. But the Dalish elf nodded her head at the masked Marquis. "And I happen to be the rightful owner of Haven." he added to the blue and gold woman's introduction. He looked at her, his pursed lips just visible underneath the edge of his mask. "House DuRellion lent these lands to Justinia for pilgrimage, this 'Inquisition' is not a beneficiary of such arrangements."

Half the words he said flew over head. The Dalish laid no claim to any land, except in history when they owned their own kingdoms, headed by the truly lost Arlathan, then Halamshiral in the Dales. She watched him carefully, and it was more than obvious that he wasn't happy. And he wanted to talk to her - nobody else. She felt like a deer which had noticed it was in the crosshairs of an arrow. "As far as I was aware, there is a book, a writ - from Divine Justinia to form the Inquisition. That was proof enough for Chancellor Roderick of the Chantry."

She quoted fact and memory at him in defense, knowing little else she could do. The Marquis DuRellion narrowed his eyes. "I have heard this from the Left Hand. And I don't doubt that the Right Hand will support such fallacies too."

"We have our writ!" Cassandra bit out.

"If the Marquis will not take Seeker Pentaghast's word on it, perhaps he would like to duel with her. She was only deemed Hero of Orlais for saving Val Royeaux from a dragon attack." the blue and gold woman said calmly.

The Marquis deflated, his shoulders slumping. "Pardon?" the lump on his throat wobbled.

"Oh it is a matter of honour among Nevarrans, especially the royal family. Shall I arrange for the duel tonight? Our troops will be delighted to learn from two such stout swords." the smiled as if her face would crack if she didn't.

The Marquis was quivering. "Perhaps... I was hasty in my dismissal of the Inquisition." he sighed heavily.

The blue and gold woman all but changed her tune, her voice softening. "Times are dark, your Grace. Justinia would have been appalled to hear that her passing divided us. She would trust the Inquisition to do what she had planned, to reach out to new people and form alliances, to halt the chaos erupting in Thedas as we speak."

The masked DuRellion looked at each of them thoughtfully. "I shall think on it, Lady Montilyet. Until then, the Inquisition may stay." then he left the room, sad and slumped. He was not the man who shouted when they arrived.

"Who are you?" Calathea asked when he was out of earshot.

"Forgive me, Lady Josephine Montilyet, ambassador to the Inquisition. Andaran atish'an, Mistress Lavellan." she bowed her head in respect.

The elf smiled. It was good to hear elvish, even on a human tongue that could not wrap around the syllables properly. "Aneth ara, but it is Calathea, Lavellan is no name of mine, but of my clan." she explained. "Would Cassandra have needed to dueled the Marquis for Haven?"

"Oh no, he has a claim on the land here dating back before the Orlesian Occupation of Ferelden. But he is still Orlesian. If he wanted to claim it back, despite a few Fereldan relatives, the Empress would have had to negotiate with the King of Ferelden for him. Considering the civil war, such matters are beneath her notice at this time." the apparent ambassador smiled, moving over to a sturdy desk and plush, high-backed chair. Calathea had no idea what an ambassador was. One had visited her clan once when a human boy went missing. The Dalish had helped find him so the blame wasn't laid on them, he had gotten lost in a cave. "He might have also soiled himself when faced with Lady Cassandra."

"Perhaps we should convene with Sister Leliana?" Commander Cullen voiced. "I'm sure the ambassador can bring any disputes that need attending to, to the war table?"

"Indeed, I can be there shortly."


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Disclaimer:**  BioWare and EA have said no to my hostile takeover, even if I promise to name my unborn child Urthemiel.

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**Chapter Twelve**

What had been dubbed 'The War Council' was in fact, the room with the map in it, with pewter figures that represented current forces and allies. Josephine and Cullen were trying to arrange them around the Hinterlands while Leliana watched, her eyes narrowed.

They controlled the Inquisition through secrets, politics, and brute force, Leliana their spymaster, Josephine the ambassador, and Cullen the Commander.

Calathea watched too, sitting on a high stool next to the tree she'd grown that broke its' pot. "No, we need to keep a close eye on the mages in Redcliffe. They might not speak to us yet, but we need their current situation so we can use it to our advantage." Leliana shook her head, pushing a figure of a crossed arrows at the Hinterlands with a long stick. Commander Cullen deflated, tightening his jaw. He'd wanted to keep his men there, for an immediate show of force.

"We do need to end the Mage-Templar War, if we got them to put their squabbles aside for five moments it could help us considerably against the Breach." the Dalish elf muttered. Forces could spook the rebel mages, pushing them into retaliation, even if having men there to deal with any issues was a better idea. The room fell silent, as if they noticed her presence again.

"We do need the mages, to agree on ending this war." Josephine sighed. "But they will not speak to us, and neither will the templars."

"The Breach was made with considerable magic, Solas and I postulated that it should take a similar amount to seal it for good." Cassandra added. "Much more than even one mage could possibly hope to achieve. The mages would have to use you as a foci similar to how a single mage uses a staff."

The elf smiled. It was her way, to add small reminders to them both that the warrior no longer was accusing Calathea of opening the Breach. It worked too, open declarations made her feel awkward. "That could be dangerous." the elf thought aloud. "If magic opened it, it could just widen the way for more demons. I trust myself, but not the Breach. And I also happen to be a hedge mage by all definitions your Chantry has, it may not work for Circle trained mages to use me in such a way."

"And I'm called a pessimist." Cassandra snorted.

"This is exactly my point. If we just pour magic into the Breach, it could very well destroy us. If we actively approach the templars, they could suppress the Breach, allow what magic we have at our disposal to close it safely." Cullen huffed, he nodded respectfully at her. "At least someone else understands the dangers of magic."

"It is pure speculation, Commander. We need more information." Leliana grit out. "If only I could..." she trailed off.

"She disappeared, and the Wardens are less that forthcoming on her whereabouts." Josephine said softly. "It's not your fault."

Cullen nodded, a broken, shining of the Veil around him. Calathe tried not to let her mind watch the world, forced herself to look through her eyes. It was more difficult that it sounded. "She returns, but in her own time. You're more lucky than some people."

Cassandra walked up to the table, a sore on her heel from an ill fitting boot making her gait uneven. "We need to be in a position to control either faction we approach. The Warden might not know any more or less than we do about these rifts."

"Either faction? We should approach both, see if templars can suppress rifts, and see if added magical power can close rifts quicker. If we need to decide... Cassandra, you are versed in templar abilities, and Solas is a fellow hedge mage, we can test both on different rifts, small and large, and compare the benefits and costs. I promise to show no bias either way. And if we meet a Circle trained mage, we could expand any theory with more power." The Dalish elf could feel her mind slipping at the edges, undoing ties that held it in place. The room was stifling, and she wished for the forests of the Free Marches.

The Free Marches! Her mind cleared, pushing back into position. "Commander Cullen, you said there were worrying reports from the Free Marches and Val Royeaux."

"Indeed. The Chantry declared the Inquisition a heretical order, and claims that a Dalish elf could never be the chosen of our lady Andraste. Of course, with Mother Giselle here to counter such claims as the arrive, we stand a better chance against them."

"That was quick." Cassandra shook her head. "I should have thought choosing the next Divine would occupy them for a few weeks."

"I expected it, it would be similar if the Dalish found out our Gods were human. I don't know what I am in all honesty, so how can they?" the elf shrugged. It was easier, what if it was the case, if she was some Herald of Andraste? How would her denial look? She didn't know any more than them, so at least if there was any truth ever discovered either way - she would not have been closed minded.

"The Chantry seems to have decided what you are, they aren't so unsure if you are or aren't, but battle lines are being drawn." Cullen rolled his eyes. "We should still try to garner their support, or weaken their position. They have nothing but words at their disposal."

"And with words, one can set a nation aflame." Josephine said sagely. "With having proved ourselves to be popular among the laymen and disenfranchised refugees of Ferelden, gathering swords and pilgrims even at this early stage, their support would fare us in good stead. Going to Val Royeaux could put many minds at ease that we are not simply an order of thugs."

"Or it could affirm that we're cornered." Cullen took in a deep breath.

"Understood, but we should go." Cassandra said decisively. "And the Free Marches?"

Leliana and Josephine shared a look between them. The ambassador and previous Left Hand of the Divine collectively looked back at the 'Herald'. Josephine cleared her throat. "A clan of Dalish elves is demanding the safe return of their First and their Hahren. In the same letter Leliana's raven delivered, they showed a lot of concern that only word of your 'capture' had reached them. They are baying for blood."

Baying for blood. She expected no less, but it still made the blood drain from her face all the same. It was just what Thedas needed, Dalish clans actively attacking humans. The Dalish outside the argument would suffer, as would the elves in cities.

Stupid, short-sighted fools! "Dread Wolf's spite!" she managed, slipping off the stool and approaching the map laid on the table. They should be at the Autumn site, so... "The Inquisition can head a force to this point, here, they will encounter Clan Lavellan, and explain in full that their First is working to end the current threats to all Thedas. They will carry a note from myself explaining what happened to our Hahren, sealed with a Dalish ward on the vellum."

Josephine pursed her lips, nodding. "The force will not push them into a skirmish?"

"No. Not while they believe clan members hostage. That is not the way Keeper Istimaethoriel thinks. They will be unfriendly, I shan't lie. But they can be unfriendly to other Dalish so it's hardly personal." the First glanced over at Leliana, it was still risky. Cassandra had very aptly put it that the woman was a spymaster, and served as such for Divine Justinia, as she would for the Inquisition. Her network of people was at their disposal. Half-formed ideas started to take root. "Unless Leliana believes she has people diplomatic enough not to scare my clan?"

The spymaster seemed to mull it over for a few seconds, sucking in one cheek between her teeth. "I do believe so, I have a Dalish man who pledged his life to my service when I saved his daughter. He is calm, and diplomatic. None believe him to be as quick-witted as his younger counterparts. He would relish even a short mission to the People." the Left Hand leaned back on her heels, folding her arms.

"Then do so. Have your network spread to scout the templars, mages, and have this Dalish man make contact with my clan." she turned to Cullen. "Commander, if you could see that the soldiers are trained sufficiently then put in strategic positions where we have news of more fighting among mages and templars? As well as a small bolster to our presence to protect the refugees of the Hinterlands."

"West of Lake Calenhad and by Highever, up on the Storm Coast is where current fighting is worst by all reports. I can have it done."

"Josephine, can an ambassador help with the situation at Val Royeaux?" it was like she was being torn in too many directions, that the Inquisition couldn't be so thinly spread. They had a lot more resources available though, and needed to throw some weight around to prove themselves. A hunter needed to hunt more than a mere rabbit, they needed to land a stag or a wolf to prove themselves. The Inquisition couldn't merely stick to small arguments, they needed to push at their largest opponents. The woman smiled coyly, her golden puffed sleeves stretched out with her shoulders, as if she was readying for battle somehow.

"I can have my contacts in the capital spread rumour of your good deeds so far, and our growing might. Words hold extreme value in Orlais where a sword might fare better in Ferelden. I do believe we have a former member of the Imperial Court who holds very well among the Chantry and people in general. If she's not already intrigued by us, I can arrange a meeting. She would also be heavily invested in halting the Mage-Templar war."

And so they went on, and Calathea retreated to her stool as the semantics were organised, men and women more suited to each task debated upon. She found it odd they deferred to her opinion, but it wasn't something she was unused to. As First, she was a good gauge of her Keeper, and would be Keeper one day herself. So leading and making decisions came easily compared to if a hunter were in the same position she found herself in. She also had the mark on her hand, so considering the goal of closing the Breach, they were kind to consult her.

Her mind wandered occasionally, often drifting over the stagnant air between shuffled pewter pieces, admiring the unique gleam such a view gave her as candlelight bounced off polished and rough surfaces. The map itself was intricate, some areas highly detailed almost down to the names of streets in a human town, to a vast stretch to the south of Orlais called the Arbor Wilds which flowed into the Korcari Wilds of Ferelden.

Calathea was hovering over the inked letters which declared Amaranthine its' label, the words tumbled in her mouth before she slunk back into the confines of her head, half-heard words while Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana had been discussing strategy beyond immediate movement. "Leliana, you said that the last you knew, the Hero of Ferelden was the Commander of the Grey Wardens in Amaranthine, that they had kept the city neutral against the war?"

"I did. Though Grey Wardens have been in small supply outside the walls of the city, if they have not left there too. The Warden will not respond to any of my letters, if she yet receives them." the red-headed woman frowned. "I will try to make contact with them somehow, she will be more invaluable to the Inquisition that she ever was to the Wardens."

"Keep us informed on route to Val Royeaux. If there's something going to that's hiding the Warden from even your spy network, then I doubt it good for the Breach or Mage-Templar War. But they hide the Champion from us too, so it might be even worse than that." Cassandra looked sternly over at the Dalish elf. "Follow me."

"You're not leaving immediately for Val Royeaux are you?" Josephine asked.

"No, but soon." Cassandra assured her, ushering the mage out of the room. Once they were back in the red and gold bedecked Chantry, incense thick and calming on her head, the warrior smiled. "You hated that, no?"

Calathea rolled her bottom lip between her teeth nervously. "You could tell?"

"I grow so weary of talk when I can do something more productive with my time, hence why Commander Cullen has the payroll and troops to order." the short-haired woman pursed her lips. "You looked like you were in another world briefly."

"I was listening... a little. When they were sorting details I did feel extra to needs. I was shocked when they kept on asking my opinion." she admitted freely.

"No more shocked than they when you asked theirs. You are our only hope of closing the Breach, and as such, wield more power over it. Even if it is personal experience only, we might need to chose between mages or templars to aide us with the closing of the Breach, your opinion will be our deciding factor." Cassandra sniffed, straightening out her shoulders, as if she was being nonsensical and emotional. The warrior seemed to have an aversion to such displays. "There is also a way you have of commanding authority. Mother Giselle was correct that your presence, when you push it, is louder than even trained orators. And I have noticed that when you fade into the background, you manage to make us ignore you. Perhaps not forget, we do know who you are and what you have done, but ignore your presence."

The Dalish elf fumbled with words on her tongue, trying to pick apart meaning. She did want to fade into the background, one learned more through listening than they did through talking. "Mas serannas, I only try."

"Your trying works better than half the people who try one or the other. But, I need to have a bath before we leave for Val Royeaux. I've missed the luxuries of a private room more than I should like to admit." she nodded as farewell, and they parted ways.

It was late afternoon when the Dalish elf left the Chantry, crisp wintry air tugging at the strands of stray hair about her ears. She shivered, but the chill felt good after so much stuffiness. Her mind yearned to soar on the air like a bird, to explore all that was Haven as only a mind can.

But there were too many people, and it was odd just to abandon your body at will like a pair of shoes. Calathea did however, meet the grumpy apothecary, a surviving mage from the Conclave; she spoke at length with the luckiest, or perhaps unluckiest blacksmith in the world regarding making a good staff; and bumped into a woman who was working to supply their forces with good armour and weapons, the requisitions officer. Threnn, the requisitions officer have her a long list of basic materials that needed sourcing through begging, borrowing, stealing, finding, or even purchasing. She was supposed to take the list either to Lady Cassandra, or the Herald of Andraste.

Despite not being recognised, or classed as a servant, Threnn had endeared herself to her. "Don't let anyone call you a knife-ear, if they do, they answer to me and a pair of brass knuckles. You don't need to mucky your hands, you let someone above you take the flack for smacking sense into an idiot." Threnn had looked slyly to the side, bending in close and whispering. "Between you and I, if any of those I report to found out, I'd get my pay docked for it. I'd probably get it back in a bonus, but officially I'd be reprimanded. You however, they might not be so lenient."

It was good advice either way. Calathea knew well enough that a Keeper took the flack for their clan, and that sometimes, idiots needed to be reminded that a bit of sense would improve their health.

The illusion had been shattered a little when someone had commented that she looked a lot like the Herald of Andraste, but then Threnn cuffed them and said "Not all elves look the same. Get back to work!"

The elf read the letters slowly, thinking about the iron deposits she'd seen which she could have easily pinpointed on a detailed enough map for excavation later, she could even think of suitable trees for fashioning aravels and bows that the Dalish would have used, they would be useful to Threnn. She internally promised to buy detailed maps of where their forces could protect miners and loggers and make notes on them. Or write detailed descriptions of such places.

"I'm rather shocked you didn't tell the requisition officer her mistake." Calathea startled, spinning in the icy mud and finding her footing in shoes was still terrible. Out of instinct she flailed out with her arms, and was caught shakily.

"I will make you wear bells on your knees like an earraigh equinox ceilidh. I swear it." she muttered, extracting herself from Solas' lucky catching of falling elf. The fellow apostate snorted, pursing his lips at her silly ire. It made her fume more, dusting herself off from imagined dirt. "Did you need something?"

"Just some of your time, I found a rather interesting part of the Fade close to the forest around the Breach. And I checked it first." it was wholly unfair that she really wanted to go and spend a few hours or so exploring the Fade. The lessons she got from simply being there lucidly where enough to help her tame the new power that welled inside her too. There were more practical uses of her time Calathea was sure, and she probably needed a good sleep besides that... which she could do in the Fade.

The Dalish elf worried her bottom lip with her teeth. "Give me a while. I have herbs to press and potions to make for the apothecary as I did promise... then I can come? Unless you want to help, at which point I can go sooner."

Solas shook his head a little, amused smirk on his features. His eyes were bright, merry almost. It gave him a younger air, less burdened. "Alright, but only because it's you."

"And if I weren't me?"

"I shouldn't think anyone else would let me mix potions after the smell of the ones I used to keep you alive." he restrained a laugh but it spread on his face all the same.

Calathea giggled silently through her nose. "Then our resident apothecary might love them!"


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Author note:** If you haven't noticed, I do fill in gaps in the elvish language with Celtic Irish. Earraigh is spring, fhomhair is Autumn, and I use the word nisse'guille for elfroot.

 **Disclaimer:** BioWare will no longer accept my calls offering a box of jelly beans, two candles, and a couple of DVDs in exchange for rights to Dragon Age. EA however said come back with more candles... :3

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**Chapter Thirteen**

It was quite pleasant actually, working with another pair of hands on old recipes. Either Solas knew them from his travels in the Fade, or he could read elvish as easily as he spoke it. The air was positively filled with the sweet aroma of simmering embrium and poppy, but the bitter elfroot hung around it like a cloak. "Da'len, lamh ma nisse'guille?"

Calathea raised an eyebrow. "Halam, Solas. Emma din 'Da'len', emma Calathea." all the same, she handed him a fresh bunch of elfroot leaves, watching silently as he cut the veins running down their centres and collected the transparent green jelly on his blade, scraping it into a jar - to be added once the embrium and poppy cooled. It was the bitterest part of the plant, and yet the most effective at healing.

She got back to her mortar and pestle, crushing the poppy seeds within until their oil made them stick together like a paste, adding it to the gently bubbling embrium infusion of the second batch. The red petals jumped on the bubbles, eking their colour and pain relieving qualities into the water. The dark poppy paste sank to the bottom, ochre bleeding from inside and up. "Solas?" he hmm'ed to her. "I think I know what the forest around the Breach is."

This caught his attention and he looked up, his hands still working without being watched. "You figured it out?"

"So you have a theory too?" she smiled softly, keeping a eye on the two glass jars that were bubbling with healing mixtures. She stirred the nearly finished first concoction. "I hope they align. I think they might be vallasdahlen, trees for those who died. The magic of the Keepers makes life from death, and so many people died when the Breach formed."

Solas' lips twisted as he thought, brows furrowing for a moment. "I thought the Dalish believed vallasdahlen to be purely for the elvhen souls who died to protect Arlathan?"

"I am hardly the Dalish. I am me." the First pouted. "I said that wrong. I mean... not all people share one thought, so what you hear from one Dalish elf is hardly what all Dalish think. Have you encountered many Dalish?" the words tumbled out as she tried to correct herself, feeling like a tangled thread that was twisting around her fingers tighter and tighter no matter which way she pulled them.

He chuckled lightly at her before his face fell. "I have met a few clans in my travels, and if not met with hostility outright, I was met with daggers and arrows when I tried to share my knowledge from wandering the Fade. You realise what a myth the Dalish are to elves who live in cities? How mysterious and wonderful they appear, yet close minded and vicious is what they are."

"Present company excluded?" she bit out, probably harsher than she intended, but memory nagged at her. "No, they are. I just wish it wasn't so."

The silence stretched out, a thin wire that sung sonorous and bittersweet. "You don't count yourself as truly Dalish, do you?" he asked. It was an insistent question, one that bothered her. She should have defended her lifestyle, she should have defended herself. It was a slight by all that she'd known to be called less than Dalish.

Calathea avoided his eyes. Eyes were the window into the soul, and in the eyes, one could tell no lies. "Elgar'nan, I do not know. In truth, I feel a part of me that is disgusted by the way my people act. A part of me is proud of what we have, what we tried to salvage from a dying empire then stole from a burning bridge." she frowned, taking a few moments to collect her thoughts. "Then part of me wishes to just know the truth, even if it was ugly, even if it railed against all I knew. A true Dalish elf would never feel like that. They are set in their ways, to be Dalish is to be Elvhen, but our lost past would make us more Elvhen, it would help us gain our immortality again. And I find it foolish?"

There was an odd way the fellow apostate listened to her speak, a way that coaxed more truths from her lips. It drained her. "Then you aren't Dalish." Solas finally surmised.

"Emma Dalish." she muttered sadly.

"No. You said so, the Dalish are close minded. The elves of Arlathan were Elvhen, and the elves of Halamshiral salvaged what they could from a dying empire. Your Dalish stole what they could as Halamshiral burnt with an Exalted March. And even then, time and memory fogs it all, strips away the last pieces of truth until you're left with rituals and words that mean everything and nothing." it was exactly what she felt, and it took her breath away that someone else at least understood that. It took an outsider looking in who watched dreams and memories in the Fade to notice just how bad it truly had become.

"I am Dalish, they are the people that raised me, and even if it is just rituals and words that mean nothing and everything... they are mine. Ultimately the Dalish are good people, just as good as any elf in the cities or any human, any dwarf! Dread Wolf's spite, I just wish the rest of my people understood that!" Calathea breathed deeply, her insides churned. "We may not be the Elvhen of the past, but we are Dalish."

The atmosphere, for all the steam and sweetness, for the perfumed embrium and bitter elfroot in the air, it was frosty. Neither elf dared look at each other for a while. "I think you're better than the Dalish, the Dalish are da'len compared to what you are, how you think." Solas finally muttered. "And I believe the forest you grew is vallasdahlen, and from all my knowledge the Fade has granted me, no vallasdahlen has been grown since Arlathan. The only ones that stood before what you did were truly that old."

He stood without another word, leaving the wooden house that was no more than bed, desk, dresser, and tin bath - alchemical instruments and books spread on the floor over woollen sheets. Calathea bit the inside of her lips. She was Dalish because the People needed elves like her, not because she was like them. She believed in the Creators and the Forgotten Ones, she was the First of her clan, she spoke and wrote in elvish, she knew the magic of her forebears. Each fact made her Dalish, and yet... and yet. She didn't know.

The elf sprung from her cross-legged position, carefully removing the elixirs from the heat by dissipating the magical aura of fire under them. She raced out the door. "Fenehdis, Solas! Din ven!"

Her bare feet fell in the ice and wet snow and she didn't care, she preferred to go barefoot even in such wintry conditions. At least the snow stopped the plants from growing as she ran. Stones and odd sticks broke under her uneven gait, robes whipping around her knees. "Explain why I should abandon what my people are because I am not like them." she panted. The apostate was beyond tired of trying to prove herself to people she shouldn't have had to prove herself to.

The bald elf stopped angrily, precise in his movements as he turned.  _'Yes, make the prideful one angry, he hides more truth than you could ever handle my increasingly sighted one.'_ the words of the Mysterious He didn't help her mood.  _'I could always reveal such truths though, you could handle them with my help.'_

Calathea snarled, a rush of the fractal light in millions of unnamed colours dampening down the slippery words. She had no time for the demon, her life was complicated enough without thoughts of becoming era'harel - an abomination. He stormed back past her, grabbing her arm and dragging her without any apparent difficulty.

At least hardly anyone had seen, the little wooden hut was out of the way from most of Haven's people. Solas slammed the door behind them. He glared angrily at her. "In your mind the Dalish are worthy of nothing but scorn, they are children, and they are cruel people who aren't even worth trying to help any more. In mine, they are the people I came from, and need to grow. You have knowledge far beyond our ken, and I am a mouthpiece to them, I might be listened to. Give the Dalish a chance."

Calathea stared at him like a hunter watching dangerous prey, feeling the gaze mirrored. Part of her thought she'd become nothing more than charred remains on the floor, part wondered if she could fight back, or if she should run. "They deserve another? How many times should one be burned before he stops putting his hand in the fire?"

"Hope." she grit out. "Hope that the Dalish can be better, that is why they need more chances. They need revolution, they need to be given a chance or else they're doomed, mired in that murky past that means nothing and everything!"

She wasn't looking with her eyes anymore. No, it was her mind that saw hatred in fumes of vibrant red and sinful black get swept away. It was a chance, it was hope.  _'The Dalish need someone like me, someone who is willing to think, willing to accept not just ideas but people outside their limited clans. The Dalish need someone like you, someone who has seen truths in hidden pockets of the Fade, who has searched for understanding. We were needed, even if neither is truly wanted.'_

"You're talking without saying a word, like your pursuer in the Fade." Solas stated calmly, throwing her anger off kilter. She startled, not even bothering to hide her inner bitterness. "Ir abelas. I'm sorry."

"For what? For dismissing good but blind people, or telling the truth? We're both right." she hissed. Calathea tightened her jaw, grinding her teeth. "But I am not like the Mysterious He. Foolish people become era'harel. I will not be like my demon, I will not have it."

They were both right in the end though. The Dalish deserved nothing for their treatment of anything foreign to them, but they should still be given what they were ungrateful for. Was it right? Give a man a chance, let him use what you give him.

 _'You are me, listen to me.'_ the audacity of it!

With her anger it was hard to push the ancient demon from her thoughts, but she managed. Her back prickled with sweat from the exertion of it. Solas still glared at her. "Just... forget we ever spoke of the Dalish. This was supposed to be a conversation on the vallasdahlen." she acquiesced. "I'm... just tired of questioning who and what I am."

His weak smile was more empathetic than she had thought it might be. "Ir abelas, Calathea. I hadn't meant to be cruel."

"We are all cruel people. I just hope to see the best of some." she shrugged. The fellow elf left again, not angry but both were tired from the duel with words.

She pressed against the door, sliding down in a heap at the threshold. The tiredness consumed her quickly, and her chin hit her collarbones after she'd already slipped into sleep.

The darkness welled, black on deeper shades of black. Anger seeped into her dreams...

Suddenly, the Fade was clear, the very magic of it swept through her, filling pores with energy and light. And she was powerful. Calathea could feel a different name in her head, a name that belonged to her as much as her heart, as much as her blood. It was a name that resided by others, saddened, bloody smears but sat right in her ribs. It belonged to her better.

With a name she felt the entirety of herself, the depths of inner self that folded and contracted with sparkling, glimmering light and unfathomable darkness. Except, she could see the ends of it inside. The light and dark were finite, like everything, and even acknowledging such made their ends rush away from sight.

And she wanted to kill. She wanted to feel the lifeblood on her skin, she wanted to see right be done, avenge brethren that sang in her lungs, filled her mind. The urge was overwhelming, more than the desire to breathe. She was judgement.

She ran after the kill, it yelped and squealed, it feared her and thought itself so wily to run faster. A fox after a hare, a wolf after an elf! She could taste the copper tang of blood!

There was no fear, there was no hunger greater than that of the apex predator!

She crashed into another, nebulous, made of thought like her. They shook and growled, circling. The other wanted her kill!

It would not have it.

Together they all changed, the other a warrior of gold and she a silver mage, crystals tipped her staff, fresh, burning metal rose to meet her fingers in a grip better than sand. Her opponent carried a perfect golden bow, strung with silk. "Duel me, you want him, you need to kill him? Then duel me!" the other taunted, swinging an arrow between her tapered fingers. "He is mine!"

Their quarry was tied in the dirt, hands behind his back, bathed in shadows like the prey it should be, unimportant. Only this to warrior, this mage were important.

In a voice both hers and deceptively cruel she spoke. "He deserves my blade, he did wrong to me and mine!"

The golden archer laughed. "Mine!"

They lunged together, wolves for a second, tearing at fur and muscle; shadow and cloaks the next, lashing at the other with daggers. Still she remained silver, the other gold. They were warrior and mage again, an impasse for a moment. "Her hip!" the prey whined.

On her side, it might gain pity if it did not lie. They clashed again, crystal tipped staff piercing a weak chink in golden chainmail. The golden one bled, collapsing.

The blood sated her, and she approached her rightful prey, thinking to toy with him, he who hurt her. "I should have your victory, one who judges." the prey laughed.

The growl filled her throat, she snarled at the prey, changing form as easily as one could think of it, a fox circling her hare, the wolf hungering for elven flesh, the silver mage who demanded judgement. Still the prey laughed, madness making her angry.

In the reflection on his gleeful, scared eyes, she saw the golden warrior rise clumsily. They were too fast for her to react and the pain bloomed through her back, it welled up through her.

The blackness consumed her again, light fading back, peeling away, shying from the encroaching night. When the light returned, the golden warrior and prey were gone.

But judgement remained. She staked the Fade to make judgement.

Weak morning light woke Calathea from the bewildering dreams, she was still slumped against the door, cold air drifting underneath that made her shiver. Her cheeks were wet, and bones stiff.

"Mythal'enaste, I must have been more than tired." she moved methodically, heating up some water in a pewter mug and flavouring it with honey.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Disclaimer:** BioWare and EA are still the owners of the rights to Dragon Age.

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**Chapter Fourteen**

Leliana kept the agents of the Inquisition as up to date as possible with her ravens. Their new forces were apparently doing well in quelling the mage-templar violence, Commander Cullen was busy day and night with training men and women who arrived in crowds, they were going to need more highly trained fighters or Cassandra might need to stay in Haven to help. Josephine was up all hours, managing the daily life in Haven and seeing to her duties as ambassador. And Sister Nightingale herself hadn't heard back from her Dalish spy.

Calathea tried not to be dismayed, he could have been a fair distance from her clan. But she doubted the spymaster would have chosen a representative specifically if he was too far to do any good. She frowned at the end of the report as Cassandra put it down, the Seeker sighing. "Val Royeaux will be hostile territory even with this Madame de Fer inviting us to her salon. I hope we don't need to wear any frippery."

Varric snorted. "I can't imagine you in anything less than a steel chestplate and wielding a sword." the warrior rolled her eyes in response, but a smile curled the edge of her lips.

They were in the city within an hour, walking down paved streets lined with carefully pruned trees and bushes, and flowers that seemed purely aesthetic if not for the pungent perfume they filled the air with over the smell of old excrement - something that Calathea was very thankful for. Cassandra noticed the Dalish elf wrinkling her nose. "The sewage systems in Val Royeaux are notorious for problems in winter and summer."

The elf chuckled weakly. "I thought us near the tannery." she admitted. There was a reason many Dalish craftsmen were more than skilled with leather, carefully managing to style the armour for their hunters so it deflected blows and mended easily, and that was because it was less than pleasant to tan leather. Scraping the fat and fur from the hide to be tanned was nothing compared to the rest.

"Half of Kirkwall smells worse than this. Void, this is roses compared to Darktown." Varric grumbled good-naturedly. The dwarf seemed split, he marveled at the marble statues and exquisite frescoes, stopping to read a plaque and then share the information he garnered from it (as well as the dirty limerick that had been etched underneath one of them). He even looked longingly at some fine cloth being sold in a stall they passed, a sea of gold and silver embroidered on rich reds, greens, and purples. Then he still looked slightly uncomfortable, mentioning that one couldn't visit a city until they'd seen the underbelly.

All the time however, he was soaking up the place and taking in details. Even Solas seemed to be looking at everything with a strange fascination. Though the Dalish elf supposed that if you spent your time in the Fade as much as he, then the real world might pale in comparison, lacking in colour and magic. Perhaps it was even greater than before, a new hue that one hadn't noticed until looked at from another angle.

Even with the gift of being able to fall into the Fade, Calathea was cautious of the denizens within, and the Fade had become dangerous with so many dangers and perils facing the world. Although a true explanation as to why would need an expert, Solas most likely. There was a stark difference to their knowledge of the land of magic, dreams, and death - and that was the colour painted by upbringing.

The curiosity did burn inside her. She edged over to him. "What is it?" the fellow elf sighed.

"Uncanny how you always notice my approach." she remarked, stifling a smile. "I had a question."

"So I gathered." he looked toward her, as if it might be a great effort. They'd not spoken much outside of general niceties since their argument in Haven and a few muttered apologies yesterday from each to the other. "And the question?"

"About the Fade of course. I wanted to know if the world is dull and grey compared to the wonders one might find, or if you see sudden new facets and hues to the world that one might overlook." she twisted her lips, pinching them to the side. The truth inside her bubbled up, whispered so Cassandra and Varric wouldn't be able to hear. "The Fade has been troubling, it is as if the light cannot be fast enough because the darkness is already waiting for it."

Solas' eyebrows furrowed together worriedly. The two elves hung back for a while. Before making an effort to walk slowly in case they were watched. "How long?" he asked.

"Since Haven. I had a... troubling dream of chasing a clansman down, I was a mage of silver, then a wolf, and then a fox. I was all of them and none all at the same time. I hungered for blood and demanded my judgement on the clansman be enforced by myself. But a golden hunter claimed him in my pursuit, we fought. I... the clansman told me of a weakness in the hunter, and I won the battle. I felt a desire to be lenient on my clansman, then he... he claimed the victory was his. I was enraged. Then the hunter stood again, shot me in the back. I awoke in the dream at a later time, both clansman and hunter long gone. I haven't even a clue as to who the clansman, or the hunter were, what they had trespassed against me... I simply felt the urge to do as I felt. Then, it was like I came back into myself, I was more than pure base instinct." she sighed. "I hate to bring a burden to you like that... silly dream."

He remained silent for a long while, jaw tightening and relaxing as he thought. Solas wet his lips. "No. It is likely your Fade pursuer. Everything not memory is a collection of thoughts, a way of understanding. In all probability, your Mysterious He thought to make you question who and what you are, as we all often query our inner self. Your clansman, could it have been your Istimaethoriel? Could the hunter been your Felgan? You did say that you and your brother fought, and would you not feel betrayed in some way by Istimaethoriel for making you be the blade?"

It made a bit of sense. But it didn't fit, but she couldn't think of any other clansman she might have imagined in such places. "I suppose, but... I dealt with such things years ago." Calathea frowned, dissatisfied. "It didn't feel like any normal dream. Dreams felt changeable once I realised I was in the Fade. I knew from the moment I was running that I was in the Fade. This felt unchangable until I took to my quarry, I was victorious from battle and grateful... then I changed back again, as if my own thoughts were quashed. Remember when we watched the," she hesitated. "the day I killed Keeper Soralan? I knew I was in the Fade, I knew it was unchangeable. It was like that in a way, except I was in the body of the memory."

He turned pensive, quieter than usual. "And the darkness and light troubled you since?" they'd gotten a fair distance from Cassandra and Varric, though neither seemed to have noticed too much. She nodded. "The darkness that your Mysterious He brings, and the light we practised to repel him?"

"Similar. More the of the Fade, all the fear and cruelty, all the loathing and greed and hunger. The light could never repel that, and it cannot fight it. I..." it was like her mind suddenly blanked, as if the trail of her thought were whipped out of her mind like a ribbon out of a basket. "I can't understand the Fade at the moment. I thought you might, Solas."

"I will have to think more on it, but most times dreams are less complicated than that." the statement felt oddly dismissive, and she felt rather foolish for pushing it. "And you asked a question. I think sometimes the world is dull and boring, but sometimes there are glimmers and colours I might never have seen if not for my studies in the Fade and I am grateful to have seen them."

"I... we could catch up, lest Cassandra assume we apostates are dawdling on purpose in a grand bid to get lost in the hive of Val Royeaux."

It was like an itch at the back of her mind, a knotted string trying to untangle. Her mind was firmly in her head though as she was faced with the hub of the hive as it were, around an artful fountain of lions and ratty grey and purple birds there stood a crowd full of buzzing, anxious humans and elves alike.

They all faced a raised platform, a Chantry Mother from her ornate red, gold, and white robes and triangular cowl atop the platform. Her face was a storm, brows heavy over her eyes and lips thinned even as she opened it to rouse them with angry words. As she noticed their arrival in the open square, she gestured at them.

"Remember Herald, they still mourn Divine Justinia. Be better than they, forgive as Andraste might have forgiven them." Cassandra muttered to her. Calathea nodded, gritting her teeth together. These people wanted someone to blame and someone to look up to in one elf, even a Dalish apostate. She had to be what they wanted as much as she needed to be true to herself.

"I'm going to guess, but I'm assuming they know exactly who we are, and probably half the rumours surrounding us." Varric sighed. "Damn, if you need a bit of flair I can help, but angry crowds can turn in seconds."

"Thank you, Varric." the Dalish elf mumbled. They stepped through the parting crowds, easily making their own stage among the scared, bile-flecked, or masked faces that surrounded them. Calathea thanked the Creators that none had advanced in their fear and anger to attack, it would not bode well for any involved.

She focused on the Revered Mother atop the platform. "Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me now. As we mourn our naive and beautiful hearted Divine, her murderer stands free. I hear your cries in question of what we might do to such a treacherous, blackened elf - question no more!"

Those faces that were bare of mask were obvious in how every sufferance they'd faced in their lives was suddenly her fault, from pox and thinning hair to arguments with their neighbours. The woman pointed her out from the Inquisition agents like a foul mark. "Behold, the heathen claimed as the Herald of Andraste, the only one to rise as our beloved fell!"

It took a lot of strength to not smite the woman with lightning, she could feel it inside her, responding to malicious thoughts that jumbled and clashed. But the Dalish First was a calm, collected woman, she was trained well and versed in doing what is best for the whole, not just the individual - even if the whole was the Inquisition and not a clan. The Inquisition would have to be her symbolic clan.

"People of Val Royeaux, we know this woman to be a false prophet, a wicked elf to subvert the word of our Andraste and turn good people from the hand of the Maker. Listen not to her lies!" it was fair to say, this Revered Mother was a very powerful orator, she had the crowd eating from her palm. If she ordered it so, Calathea knew she would be dead in that moment.

She took in a deep breath. "You claim to know all the Maker commands, which omens are from His hand? To know in the depths of your heart that which Andraste would do? No person could ever claim as such, and to do so is a sin in the fold of the Chantry!" it was Cassandra's words echoing in her head, and she could almost feel the pride radiating from the Seeker as she spoke. A quick glance confirmed the pleased smile that she was viciously trying to hid. "Let us stay in fact. Out of sheer luck I lived through the devastation the Breach wrought and in the same luck became able to close the rifts. I did not ask for such, and certainly did not kill Divine Justinia. So why attack the only person able to help in the chaos left? What should you gain?"

They hadn't been able to explain it yet, but the crowd hung on her words like the Inquisition forces had after she grew the passiflora vine, or how the mages and templars stopped their fighting temporarily. It was like magic, and still very odd. They were entranced, woven into a spell.

"It's true! The Inquisition only seeks to end the madness before it is too late." Cassandra joined in. "We will not be stalled by inaction, we already support those displaced by the Mage-Templar war."

The Revered Mother narrowed her eyes at them. "Too late!" her fists curled and she forcefully unclenched them, she pointed out at her side and an emerging group of what appeared to be templars, each in shining chestplate emblazoned with red lacquer sword of their order. "It is already too late. Through sight enough to counter your heathen words, the templars have returned to us. They will face your Inquisition and good people will be safe once more!"

She stepped out the way as the templars mounted the platform, faces of thunder. It did give her pause, all templars did. The templars in the Hinterlands had been clumsy, their powers only strong as one. They hadn't fought a trained mage in a long time and it was obvious if ten fell to Solas and Cassandra alone. These templars though, the Veil shone like the polished gleam of their armour, it was full of their righteous exertion over the Veil. It actually made her feel queasy to be near so many.

But the Dalish elf would not rise to the bait. Vir Atish'an, the way of peace. Only the Keepers, those who heard the code of Sylaise and adhered to mending and healing were worthy to tread the difficult path. Calathea was a Keeper and in that moment, the knowledge of that, filled her resolve. They didn't need the templars to bolster their standpoint, and the Chantry was already scrambling for help against their fledgling group.

Her eyes widened as one of the templars turned to the Chantry Mother, solidly punching her with a gauntleted in the back of the head with a crack that left her sprawled on the ground. The crowd startled like the Inquisition agents.

The templar which had lead them up the steps to the platform turned one who threw the punch. "Still yourself. Mother Hevera is beneath us."

All the while, Calathea was struggling to make sense of it all. "So, not here to deal with us nasty Inquisition agents?" Varric snorted sarcastically.

The man turned, piercing eyes all but looking though them like they were less than the dirt in his tread. He sneered. "As if there were any reason to."

Cassandra shook her head, as if coming out of a stupor, following the templar with a determined gait, one similar to the one she'd used when interrogating the Dalish elf in the fallout of the Breach's formation. "Lord Seeker Lucius, it is imperative that we speak with-" she was cut off by him.

"You will not address me." he looked down his nose as he walked past the warrior. The elf rocked back on her heels, so Cassandra knew the man? They had both been Seekers together?

"Lord Seeker?" she protested, oddly speechless. Calathea quickly surmised that this would have been akin to something like a Keeper suddenly dismissing one of their clan for no reason, and she was angry that he would do that to Cassandra. She stepped forward, ready to stand beside the warrior.

Lord Seeker Lucius looked at her as if she'd kept her voice but changed her face, like a foreign thing in a place he knew. It was not a kindly glance. "You create a heretical movement which seeks to raise a puppet as a prophet? Justinia would be ashamed, as should you be." it was more than a glancing blow. He looked past her, at the crowd, raising his voice. "You should all be ashamed! The templars failed no-one when we left the Chantry to purge the mages! Your Chantry forgets it's most loyal servants, leashing us with fear and doubt when the world needed us! If any of you come to appeal for our aide, you are too late! You could barely give respect when it was due, and now you would still give none!"

A sad sussuration broke out, worried, scared people dissipating from their congregation. These people had changed when the Chantry Mother Hevera promised them templars. Their mourning had turned to hope that a war they had no part in, would end. Now, they were left without any hope and snapped back into their state of mourning.

Cassandra looked like her face might break in a moment, and as she looked at Varric, she wondered if the dwarf could pull a miracle from his leather coat. Finding her tongue, she lifted her voice, hoping that the strange command she held would sway these people. It was what was right, not what she wanted.

"Templars, a man previously known as Knight-Captain Cullen of Kirkwall leads our forces. We respect the templars and their unique talents, we have a place for you. You can join us, as he did." as far as they knew, it could have been the worst lie that ever passed her lips. She was an elf, and a mage - which if she was aware of their status as templars just from their affect on the Veil - they were aware of in her.

The Lord Seeker choked, a cruel smile curling his lips. "You're a mage! Your mere presence brands the Inquisition traitors, whomever you have ties to is as worthless as that fact!"

One of the templars approached Lucius from behind, biting the inside of his bottom lip. "My Lord Seeker, what if she is sent by Andraste or the Maker? What if-"

The man who hit the Revered Mother stepped in. "You are called to a higher purpose. You don't question." he growled. The Lord Seeker shook his head.

" _I_ will make the templar order a power that stands against the Void.  _We_ deserve independence, recognition for our sacrifices! The Inquisition has shown you nothing, they can give us less than nothing." the conviction of his own words was chilling. Calathea grit her teeth, setting her jaw.

"Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of the protection of our order. We march!" he ordered. There were a few men and women in the templar fold which gulped, glancing uneasily between Inquisition agents and their leader in the Lord Seeker.

"Wonderful fellow. Cheerful." Varric commented with an exasperated sigh.

"Lord Seeker Lucius has gone mad, he must have." Cassandra shook her head defeatedly, closing her eyes. Calathea was incensed with anger, not just that he had been so stubborn as to not see his own nose, but that he'd deeply upset their own Seeker. "He was always been a decent man, ever since he became the Lord Seeker two years ago. He never gave into ambition or grandstanding."

"I did doubt the templars would see past my magic. We can still experiment with your abilities on small rifts, if even a small number defect, we can use their talents." she said hopefully in a bid to cheer Cassandra. The warrior smiled weakly.

"Either we will have mages or templars. After we play niceties with Madame de Fer we should get word to Haven, or return post-haste." she sighed, it hadn't worked.

In the wake the Lord Seeker and his templars left, an arrow hit the wooden support to the platform next to Cassandra's head. The place was too crowded to fight without harming a bystander, so Varric took Bianca from his back, looking through the scope on her crosshairs in the direction of flight. He grunted. "Nobody. If there's an assassin here, I saw we take a little vigilante justice on their arses."

"Did I mention that I like your way of thinking... sometimes." Cassandra growled. She was upset, and itching for a fight. Calathea was inclined to support her. In their push to fight back against the hidden archer, Solas had wandered up to the arrow.

He pulled a small, grubby piece of vellum from it. "It appears the arrow was to convey a message from afar, not to kill." he pursed his lips while he read. "It speaks of someone wishing to hurt us, no surprise, but the archer has a way of striking first. It find them, we must follow a few notes attached to out-of-place, red items in the market, docks, and in a cafe. They say to bring swords. Signed, Friends of Red Jenny."

"Hawke tangled with a few of them, their information tends to be profitable." Varric shook out his shoulders. "And it's hardly unlike them to be cryptic."

"So we meet these Friends of Red Jenny, stop whomever wishes us harm, then go to where Madame de Fer is?" she tried. They looked at Varric expectantly.

Varric shrugged. "Normally you don't meet anyone from the Friends of Red Jenny, just notes then money left in a safe place. They're more shadowy than bards, but - sounds like an adventure."

"I will not in any world, call myself an adventurer. It sounds dangerous to the health." Cassandra muttered.

"And being half bulwark, half pants-soiling dagger to the throat is more appealing. Shit, I need a better line of work." the dwarf pursed his lips cheekily, grinning. "Come on Seeker, you can scowl better than that."

"Let us just keep our eyes peeled." the Seeker grit out. At least Varric could help her forget her worries, even if it was just for a moment.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Disclaimer:** As always - BioWare and EA are the owners of Dragon Age, but for a brief nanosecond in the secondary trouser leg of time - it was mine!

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**Chapter Fifteen**

Finding the red toy horse in the docks, the bottle of red ink in the cafe, and especially the jar of red beetles in the marketplace, had been time-consuming. Piecing the notes attached to each, not so much.

Hence how Cassandra, Calathea, Solas, and Varric found themselves slipping into the servant entrance of an estate in the eastern quarter of Val Royeaux. "Not been picked, just left ajar. Not sure what to make of that anymore." Varric remarked when he inspected the entrance.

Cassandra frowned. "It is either a trap, or they have watched for our arrival and left the door open for our ease of entry."

The Dalish elf worried her bottom lip for a moment. "Keep your weapons out, but not in plain sight. I doubt these Red Jenny would tell us to come armed if they intended just to end us." and with that, Calathea pulled her staff from the holster on her back, holding it awkwardly as she walked the darkened corridor that welcomed them. The whole place looked deserted.

The kitchen smelled vaguely of cooking, but not recent work. The worktop had a fine sheen of dust in the stale fats that coated it, and a childish smile had been carved into the top with the back of someone's nail. They checked the larder and were met with a gristly sight, a small child was hidden under frayed sacks, neck purple with the marks of strangulation and body bloated from days of having been left there.

Cassandra covered her nose as she ducked out of the larder, the grip of her leather glove on her swords hilt squeaking ever so slightly. Her face was barely restrained fury, upper lip curling up in an angry sneer. "This had better not be the work of these Red Jennies." she snapped, hissing in aside at Varric.

The dwarf up his hands up in mock surrender. "Don't look at me, Seeker. The Friends of Red Jenny tend to avenge this sort of thing, they're... vigilantes of a sort, not murderers."

"Speak, what do you know about this place. What have we stumbled into?" Cassandra snarled.

Calathea put a hand up. "If these people are vigilantes, then the child's murderer is who we are after. The Red Jenny people might have set us up by telling us we have a personal stake in ending the criminal, but they have sent people who would care for a random murder no?" the short-haired woman huffed, nodding sadly. "Right, so why is the estate abandoned? How long ago was the child ended?"

Solas put a hand up by his shoulder, "I can check, deaths imprint on the Veil and a murder would be... rather violently etched here." unsteadily he took a breath in, reentering the dark larder with a magelight hovering over his staff.

The magical light bathed it all even more morbid shades, the shallow waxiness of the chubby, blackened cheeked child, naked with stumps where bare fingers and toes should have been. Solas crouched by it, reaching out with a quivering hand until it rested a couple inches above it's forehead. His body rocked forward as the others watched him in sick curiosity, jolting still and lips moving without sound. His breathing was shallow until he rocked backward again, hitting emptied shelves with a loud gasp.

The magelight flickered. "How long for the poor nuglet?" Varric dared to ask. The elven apostate took a moment to calm himself, very carefully picking up a piece of sacking and wrapping the child up before he spoke. He was both efficient and reverent in his movements.

"Ir abelas, that should never have happened to you da'len." he whispered. Carefully, he stood, striding out of the larder with passionate purpose. "The lord of this manor had an affair with a servant here. When he found a child was born of it, he killed both the child and mother here. After, there were dogs let in. Two servants found the mangled body of the mother a few days later, taking her to be burnt. They did not discover the child. They called a end to their service for their fallen comrade, which I would assume spread beyond those two maids when we consider the state of the kitchen."

Cassandra audibly grit her teeth. "Over a week then?"

"A good two weeks, nearly three. More than that, the child was burnt inside his throat. The lord of this manor is a mage." Solas sighed, "there may be magical protections around his inner sanctum, the murderer... seemed to show a remorse for the killings."

"Then the servants would have contacted the Friends of Red Jenny. Makes sense." Varric winced, shaking his head. "I've helped end some sick bastards with Hawke, but it never gets easier to see a child as the victim."

Calathea gulped down the rising bile in her mouth, her magical energy pulsing furiously in her veins, lightning tracing inner circuits that sought release. It was like something dark and vile was awakening.  _'Ah my sweet, embrace the call of the neverending night, dole it to those you judge unworthy. Be the hand of death.'_ the Mysterious He purred inside her head. She ignored the presence, but could not push him away at this moment.

"Solas, we can detect these magical protections." she didn't wait for confirmation from him, it was almost like she was speaking without even thinking about the words as they poured off her lips. "We will go first... strip this murderer of his false security."

The fellow apostate raised an eyebrow before nodding. "Follow then."

They walked ahead, he slightly before her, staves holding back the murky shadows with twin magelight guiding them through gloomy corridors, the eyes of oil portraits staring down at the righteous intruders. The leather and chain of Cassandra's armour squeaked softly and clinked in the absence of noise, Varric's much loved crossbow groaned as he winched the limbs back. Both apostates were quiet but for the hum of their light and the swish of robes.

All the while, the urge to do justice by the dead child rang between her ears, thrumming thoughts loose. "The lord of the estate, he is married?"

"I do not think so, he looked young in the memory." Solas breathed.

It somehow made it easier, that by killing the lord here that they wouldn't be making a widow or orphan tonight. Calathea may have been full of anger, but she was not blinded by it.

They slammed open heavy oak doors, and had to duck as a ball of bright orange flame hit the jamb. Solas cursed loudly, thrusting his staff into the floor, a shimmering magical shield surrounding them all like a bubble. It was like looking through glass the lord of the manor stood awkwardly, a golden painted mask on his ruddy face. He looked unclean.

He stumbled forward at her, jaw tight and fire curling in his fists. "The Herald of Andraste, I could recognise that heathen face anywhere!" he spat. He barely looked at them as he ripped off his mask, red face livid. "How much could it have possibly cost the Inquisition to find me! To take down my guards!"

There was a crash, which each of them looked toward. A small, cowled figure was crouched by a toppled stand, a plaster bust rolling across the floor which looked like the angry young lord. "Hey! Bad guys say what?"

The lord flustered. "What-" his question was cut short as the bow the cowled figure was holding twanged quickly, an arrow speeding through the air in an arch that ended in his face, the pointed tip bursting with a crack through the back of his skull. His lips moved soundlessly as he collapsed face first into the floor, blood pooling on the marble and carpets.

The archer giggled, snorting as they brushed back their hood back to reveal two pointed ears that were feathered by crudely chopped straw blonde hair and a youthful face. "Oh, did you hear that? Bad guys say what then - splat - arrow to the face! Priceless, wasted it on that prick." she sauntered casually up to the body, flipping him with a kick and yanking the arrow out with a gristly pull. She returned it still bloody to her quiver.

Varric coughed and Solas brought the barrier down slowly. "Aneth ara, lethallan." Calathea tried, grimacing at the shock of the whole murderer ended quicker than anticipated and her anger bubbling away without release. "But really, we had this."

"Pfft!" the archer stuck her tongue out, blowing a farting noise on it. "You're all elfy, wonderful. You are the glowy one right though?"

The Dalish elf was taken aback, glancing back at Varric who pointed at his hand meaningfully. Calathea glanced down at the so called mark of Andraste, holding it up and flexing her hand until it flashed as it did when her nerves tugged it into spasm. "I suppose, but what do you mean, I am all elfy?"

"Oh you know, talk all that rubbish speak and walk around without shoes on." the archer looked down at her feet, then at Solas'. "Well, I suppose you're not all that elfy. He can piss off though, bet you do all that shouting harry-whatcha-call-it down the streets like the rebels. There was a shoe burning."

The situation was just too ludicrous. Calathea pursed her lips not to laugh. "Do you mean harillen or hellathen?" she managed before clenching her teeth together and hugging her arms into her ribs.

Solas cursed under his breath. "Elvhen'alas."

"Fucked if I know." the archer shrugged, sticking her tongue out tauntingly at the bald apostate. "Name's Sera by the way, and are you going to be ready for a fight? 'Cause that bastard had some dogs tied up upstairs that from the sound of it finished chewing through their leashes."

No sooner than she'd said it, the room became full of vicious teeth and barking. The Dalish elf swung her staff up, knocking a dog back before hurling a bolt of lighting down it, watching it spark off the beast and hit the other dogs. It whined loudly, angered.

Before she could do anything, both a crossbow bolt and an arrow crossed either side of its head. The dog slumped down. Cassandra held a big, beefy brute of a dog under her shield, her sword abandoned where she chose to hold her thick gauntlet to it's windpipe. The dog calmed backing away and tucking his tail between his legs. Varric was quick in ending the final dog with a crossbow bolt that echoed in the sudden silence left as the fighting stopped.

Sera whistled lowly. "Not seen that trick since old Mac Dougal beat the living shit out of a mongrel that was snacking on street urchins. Nice one."

Cassandra chuckled hesitantly. "An old trick, I was taught by a good friend."

"Come here you flea-bitten thing. Ain't going to shove an arrow through your head without reason." the elven archer bend to her knees, hands out. "Come on."

Slowly the dog pad out the darkness, apologetically looking downward and sniffing. "That dog ate a dead woman. I doubt he would be a friend." Cassandra said bluntly.

"And, didn't kill her. You wouldn't blame the hand for what the head tells it to do, just chop off the head." Sera sniffed back. "'Sides, that trick'll get even vicious dogs to roll over."

"Sera, are you Red Jenny?" Calathea managed to ask. Varric snorted. "I guess not then."

"Nah, Friends of Red Jenny. So's some others in other places. We just do stuff."

"Stuff?" the dog sniffed Sera's hand cautiously, licking at the sticky blood of his previous master like it as some treat. The Dalish elf wrinkled her nose.

"Yeah, stuff. Some servant thinks his master's a bastard and we take revenge. Normally it's stuff like... stuff. Bees in the privy and all his breeches with a hole in the bum, they're the not so bad ones though. They're not so dead as the real shit-eaters." she shrugged, as if it was business as usual to enact justice on child-killers and other nefarious sorts. "Anyway, does the Inquisition need a Friend? Or not?"

The dog rolled onto his back, oblivious to the dead dogs and man on the floor only a couple of feet away. "Are you offering your skills as an archer?" Cassandra asked incredulously.

"Why not, looks like you could do with some normal elves. Anyway," she sniffed. "could do with some target practice on demons. When the sky does it's whole let the monsters run wild, business and coin don't flow. We get things good and normal, coin flows in the coffers and well... profit. That's it."

"It's a reason. Who said we must all be here just to save the world we happen to live in?" Calathea sighed. "Join us, your skills will be more than useful." Sera grinned. "But the dog is your responsibility."

"Fine! You have a deal. I'll call it Glowy. You can be Inky whatever your name is, Herald. You're not all that glowy anyway." Sera tapped her thigh as she stood, the dog following. "Shake on it, Inky?"

"It's Calathea, but I suppose I can cope with a nickname." they shook hands and the dog sniffed her too, sticking a scarred nose into her crotch. The Dalish apostate backed away, it was after all - a very big dog. "I think Varric calls me Glowy though, so maybe something else for your new dog-friend?"

"But he likes Glowy! Look, Glowy, sit!" the dog very obediently sat at the command, like it'd been trained under the same name since birth.

"Great, I hate changing nicknames." the dwarf grumbled. "And word of warning, I've taught one dog how to play Diamondback and I'm not above teaching another."

"We'll just make twice as much off you suckers on game night then." Sera grinned. "So who's everyone I need to know?"

"Well my delightful Buttercup, that one that's scary as nugshit is Cassandra - I've learned that pissing her off is a death sentence; the elf over there trying to bore a hole through your head and scowling is Solas - he loves to laugh; the elf with the glowing hand is Calathea and she's prone to making the ground move." Varric and Sera walked together, the dog and his claws skittering on the marble after the roguish duo.

"Shake eh?" the archer snorted.

"Not like that, vines, plants, and all that natural shit the Dalish like frolicking in starts growing when she touches the ground. The sweet crossbow on my back is Bianca, and if she's scratched there's a matching scar for the idiot who touched her." the dwarf pat his weapon affectionately with a cloying tut. "She's a powerful woman."

"Are we all that dour?" Cassandra asked sarcastically. "I might never have guessed."

Solas just shook his head. "We have let ourselves in for a headache much larger than the Breach."

"Leave her alone." Calathea didn't know what it was, but something deep inside said that Sera was a good person, devoted to her shadowy vigilante justice for the underdog even if it was slightly childish at times, and even if she was swayed by the promise of coin to go the right thing - then she was ultimately good. "So what do we do with the bodies?"


End file.
